Of Flesh and Blood (43 page)

“The United States Congress believes otherwise, Dr. McGrath,” Junior pointed out.

Evan looked up at the young man. “Do you intend to go, Junior?” He regretted the question as soon as it left his lips. He didn’t want to see Olivia’s son put in harm’s way any more than he wished it for his own son.

“I would love to, but—”

Marshall held up his large hand in front of his son’s chest. “I am too old to run our lumber business on my own. Junior needs to stay at home to help me. No doubt timber and other building supplies will be in great demand to fuel our war effort. And he can do far more good for his country
here
in the Pacific Northwest than on the fields of France.”

“I feel the same way about George,” Evan muttered, more to himself than Alfredson.

“Medics,” Marshall grunted. “You cannot have enough of them on a battlefield.”

Evan’s bitterness surged. His eyes shot daggers at the old man who, while protecting his own child, seemed perfectly willing to sacrifice the sons of others.

Before Evan could reply, Liv spoke up. “George is a man of science, not war, Mr. Alfredson.” She placed her hands on her hips. “We think it would be of far more use for George to finish his medical studies, here.”

Unperturbed, Marshall shrugged. “Obviously, the boy feels otherwise.”

Fighting back a scowl, Evan looked from Marshall to his daughter. “Liv, will you please give me a moment with these gentlemen?”

Liv viewed her father defiantly for a moment before she turned to the visitors. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Alfredson.” She turned to his son. “Junior.”

Evan noticed how she held the young man’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Out of the corner of his eye, Evan spotted another disapproving glower from Marshall.

After Liv had left, Evan held out a hand to the chairs in front of the desk. “Please.”

They sat down at the desk. Evan folded up the newspaper and slipped it into the top drawer. “If not the war, what have you come to discuss?” he asked.

Junior looked at his father. The old man nodded his approval. “Dr. McGrath, we would like to discuss the admission policy here at the Alfredson.”

Evan almost rolled his eyes. “We have waded these waters too many times before. The foundation is bringing in a healthy stream of income now. Enough to cover the expenses of those patients who cannot pay their charges.”

“Hardly,” Marshall grumbled. He thumbed out the window at the new building. “And where do you think the money is coming from to pay for the third building? Not the foundation, I can assure you.”

Junior’s smile only widened. “Besides, Dr. McGrath, we are here to specifically discuss the clinic’s policy concerning colored patients.”

Evan sat up straighter in his seat. He was never happy with his original compromise to establish a separate ward for the black patients. He’d had little choice at the time, as he was facing a potential revolt, not only from the Alfredsons and his own staff but from the other patients, as well. Close friendship with Moses Brown aside, Evan had no time for small-minded bigotry. He had witnessed too many autopsies to think there could be any fundamental difference between the races. He still hoped to one day see the wards integrated, but in the meantime consoled himself with the knowledge that despite the segregation, the blacks were still receiving reasonable care. However, he sensed a renewed threat behind Junior’s benign smile.

“What about them?” Evan asked warily.

Junior shrugged. “I happen to be fond of a number of colored people.
I am particularly attached to our old maid, who has been with us so long that she is almost a part of our family.”

Evan knew Junior was referring to Theodora. He still saw her from time to time when she came to Oakdale to visit Moses.

Junior held out a hand, helplessly. “However, more and more coloreds are arriving at the door of the Alfredson seeking free medical care.”

“As our reputation grows, we attract more patients,” Evan said flatly. “I thought we agreed that was the goal.”

“Some people in Seattle,” Marshall began—and Evan immediately appreciated he was referring to the city’s upper crust—“are beginning to refer to the Alfredson as a ‘nigger hospital.’”

Evan folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Alfredson, I do not appreciate the use of that term in my office,” he said.

“Your office!” Marshall scoffed. “After all the time, money, and sweat I have invested in this site . . .” He banged his cane loudly onto the hardwood floor. “I will tell you what I do not appreciate, Dr. McGrath. Being ridiculed by people who matter the most to me! That is what. Do you understand me?”

“No, sir, I do not.” Evan rose to his feet.

Marshall looked up at him as though viewing a cockroach that had crawled out from a crack between floorboards. “Perhaps the time is long overdue to find a doctor who
does
understand the wishes of the owner of this hospital.”

Evan held the older man’s stare, but doubt began to stir. He had heard many threats over the years from Marshall but none struck him as more heartfelt. The dream of passing on the reins of the Alfredson Clinic to one of his children seemed in real peril, but the alternative—banning people on the grounds of their race—was unconscionable. “If you are suggesting that we stop offering treatment to the Negroes, then—”

Junior held up a palm as he stood to his feet. He glanced quickly from Marshall to Evan. “Dr. McGrath, my father is not suggesting that at all.”

Marshall said nothing.

“What are you suggesting, then?” Evan asked.

Junior offered a conciliatory smile. “We think it is best to avoid the impression that the Alfredson is pandering to a particular . . . ethnicity. Perhaps
the approach would be to keep a reasonable ratio of white to nonwhite patients. Say, in the neighborhood of ten to one.”

“A quota?” Evan shook his head. “That is what you are suggesting, Junior, is it not?”

“I prefer to think of it as a compromise, Dr. McGrath. One that will allow—”

Marshall cut his son off with a quick glance. “Junior, I need a moment alone with Dr. McGrath.”

Junior’s smile dissipated. “Father, I think—”

“A moment!”

Junior nodded. His shoulders slumped slightly as he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Marshall stared Evan back into his chair. When he spoke, Alfredson sounded more tired than belligerent. “This liberal policy of yours—toward the needy, the drifters, and the colored—is a mistake, Dr. McGrath. Mark my words. It will undermine the reputation of this hospital.”

“Mr. Alfredson, you were well aware of the principle when we began—”

“Yes. Yes.” Marshall waved his big hand impatiently. “I did not believe in it then. I certainly do not believe in it now. But a long time ago, I gave my word that I would support you in this endeavor, and I do not intend to break it now.”

Evan had no recollection of Marshall making such a promise to him. He wondered if the old man was showing the first signs of senility.

“Dr. McGrath, I will entrust you to abide by some ratio or balance—however the bother you choose to view it—whereby this hospital does not appear to be overrun by Negroes. In turn, I will continue to support the new construction and whatever operating costs are not paid for by the foundation. Am I clear?”

From the man’s cold hard eyes, Evan realized the offer was nonnegotiable. Appreciating that he would have some leeway in his interpretation of the “quota,” he decided it was another compromise he would have to live with. “Mr. Alfredson, I will see that the hospital is not overrun by Negroes.” As the words left his lips, he felt as though he were betraying Moses.

“Good.” Marshall made no attempt to rise from his seat. “There is one other matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“Your daughter.”

Evan’s voice rose defensively. “What about Liv?”

“I have seen the way she eyes my son.”

Evan gripped the desk in front of him. “I beg your pardon.”

Marshall shook his head. “I am familiar with that look, Dr. McGrath. I saw it on my daughter’s face, too.” He looked up at the ceiling and cleared his throat. “When you came to call on Olivia after her surgery.” His eyes found Evan’s again. “I only wish I had interceded sooner. Maybe then . . .”

In all the years since Olivia’s death, Evan had never heard Marshall mention her name. “They are young, Mr. Alfredson,” Evan said.

“There can be no friendship of any nature between our children, Dr. McGrath.”

Evan felt his cheeks burning. “Because of something that happened to their parents a lifetime ago?”

“The reason is of no concern to you.”

Evan shook his head, feeling an unexpected pang of empathy for the man who had been his lifelong nemesis. Marshall was clearly trapped in the past, still enslaved by his love for Olivia. In many ways, Evan felt the same. But he was not going to let history dictate his daughter’s future. “Mr. Alfredson, whatever you feel about me, and vice versa, it has nothing whatsoever to do with Liv and Junior.”

Using his cane as a vault, Marshall leapt to his feet with an agility that stunned Evan. The old man took two steps until he reached the desk and then leaned across it. “Understand this, McGrath!” He shook a thick finger a few inches from Evan’s face. “If your daughter so much as shares another affectionate conversation with my son, I will banish your entire family immediately and forever from the grounds of my clinic!”

Erin McGrath leaned against the far wall of the room, wishing she could dissolve into it.

That fucking storm
, she thought again as she fought back the tears.

The head of Kristen Hill’s bed was tilted upward. Moisturized oxygen hissed out of the bowl-shaped reservoir under her chin and swirled around her face forming an otherworldly veil of vapor. Kristen’s two small children stood beside the bed, looking like trick-or-treaters in their oversized yellow gowns and full face shields (which Erin had borrowed from Tyler at the children’s hospital).

Erin suspected Katie and Alex might already know they were seeing their mother for the last time. They never said a word to justify her hunch, but something in their quiet demeanor and sorrowful stares transcended the usual separation sadness she had seen in them before.

The children would not have even had any chance to see their mother again without Erin’s intervention. She had appealed to almost everyone within Infection Control to make an exception, on compassionate grounds, to the stringent no-visitor policy for patients quarantined with
C. diff
. They wouldn’t budge, so Erin finally took matters in her own hands. After outfitting the kids with pediatric biohazard suits, she led the children and Kristen’s aunt up to the ICU, effectively daring the staff to prevent them from visiting their dying mother. No one tried to stop them.

Kristen had already outlived expectations. She had refused to go back on a mechanical heart pump, and Erin supported her decision since it would only stall the inevitable for days at most. Kristen’s transplanted heart was essentially nonfunctional. The rest of her organs, including her kidney and her liver, had also begun to shut down. She was surviving on will alone.

Erin’s tears started to flow behind her mask again as she watched the visitors begin their good-byes. Shaking her head nonstop, Kristen’s elderly aunt mumbled a few empty words of encouragement and then shuffled to the door to wait for the children there.

Somehow Kristen mustered the strength to lift her arms off the bed and hold them out to Katie and Alex. The children threw themselves into their mother’s outstretched arms, each leaning against opposite sides of the bed.

“Promise . . . you’ll be . . . good for Auntie Kay,” Kristen gasped through the mist enveloping her face.

“We will, Mommy,” Katie cried softly.

Alex buried his head in her chest. “Can we come again tomorrow?”

“We’ll . . . see,” Kristen said, stroking his head.

Katie and Alex leaned against their mom for a long time. Only the hissing oxygen and her labored respirations filled the mournful silence. Then Kristen broke into a harsh wet cough that shook her entire body. Frightened, both children straightened up and backed away a step.

Erin saw that, behind the vapor, Kristen’s face had gone blue from the cough racking her. Finally, Kristen managed to fight it off and somehow catch her breath again. “Mommy . . . needs to . . . sleep . . . a little.” She conjured a smile to her blue lips. “You better . . . go.”

“Come on, children. Alex, bring your sister . . .,” the aunt called in a hushed voice from the doorway.

Kristen looked from Katie to Alex. She began to raise a hand again but it dropped to the bed, powerless. “I love . . . you two . . . more than anything,” she said.

Katie rushed back and threw her arms around her mom again. “I love you, Mommy.”

“Come on, Katie,” Alex croaked. “Mommy wants to sleep.”

Katie straightened up and walked with her brother toward the doorway. As she passed, she said, “Bye, Dr. Erin,” without looking at her.

“See you, Katie. Bye, Alex,” Erin said as lightly as possible.

As soon as they left, Erin hurried over to the bedside. Kristen’s face was still a grayish blue and behind the mist tears now ran down her cheeks. Her eyes were half shut when she looked over at Erin.

“They won’t . . . get sick . . . right?” Kristen asked anxiously.

Erin shook her head. “Those were sealed biohazard masks they had on. They’re safe.”

Kristen nodded slightly and then looked away.

“Do you want a few moments to yourself?”

Kristen’s eyes opened wider and she turned back to Erin. “I was . . . hoping . . . you’d stay . . . a bit.”

“Of course.” Erin nodded. “I will stay as long as you want me to.”

Another series of coughs shook Kristen and her face darkened again. Erin knew that she could not continue much longer like this. “Listen, Kristen. Are you
certain
you don’t want us to put you back on the respirator? It might give your body a chance to rest, and even—”

“No,” Kristen choked out as the cough subsided. “We’ve . . . tried . . . everything.”