CHAPTER 13
Mirielle stood in the doorway of the dressing clinic, loath to cross the threshold. When Dr. Ross said he had the perfect idea how she could help, this was not what she’d had in mind. Already the smell of liniment and rotting flesh threatened to unsettle her breakfast. But the words in Charlie’s letter—You’ve never endeavored after anything in your life—propelled her inside.
She avoided the patients’ wide-eyed stares. Some sat on low stools, soaking their feet in basins of water. Others perched on chairs scattered about the room as the sisters bandaged their raw and ulcerated limbs.
“You’re late,” Sister Verena said, coming up beside her.
Mirielle fought back a grimace. She hadn’t pictured Sister Verena around when she imagined helping to find a cure. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
Sister Verena eyed Mirielle’s satin crepe day dress as if it were a burlap sack. “Indeed.”
“This won’t do? I thought the royal blue was a suitably serious color, while still complementing my complexion, of course. I simply can’t wear dark yellows or lavenders with too much pink in them. They wash out my cheeks such that not even rouge can save me.”
“You’ll need to wear a uniform. Report to the materials office and tell them you’ll be assisting in the clinics.” She gave Mirielle’s outfit another withering glance. “They’ll provide you with more suitable attire.”
A uniform? Uniforms were for maids and waitresses and street sweepers. But Mirielle decided it best not to argue and left in search of the materials office. After several wrong turns, she found it tucked between the laundry and the water treatment plant. When she explained why she’d come, the man at work there rummaged through several racks of woefully outmoded clothes before handing over a heap of scratchy white blouses and skirts.
“This is the uniform?”
The man nodded.
“But shouldn’t someone take my measurements first?”
“These are factory-made garments, ma’am. No measurements needed. Alls they come in is small, regular, and stout.”
Mirielle’s face puckered. “And which did you give me?”
“I got a good eye for lady’s sizes.” He winked. “You’re a regular.”
Mirielle scowled. “Regular indeed.”
Back in her room, she changed out of her satin dress and into the cotton uniform. The skirt hung clear to her ankles, and the blouse had no shape or softness. The sleeves were too short and the collar scratchy. The cuff was too narrow to button around her plaster cast. No matter how tightly she fastened her girdle, the skirt flared at her hips like a bell. One look in the filmy bathroom mirror and Mirielle cringed. Even her grandmother—when she was alive—had dressed more smartly than this. But for a chance to see Charlie and her girls again, Mirielle would wear anything.
On the way back to the dressing clinic, she passed a group of men seated where the walkway abutted the porch in front of house twelve. The Rocking Chair Brigade, Irene had unaffectionately called these men, warning Mirielle about their perpetually sour dispositions and propensity for gossip.
“You thinking about taking the vows and becoming a nun?” one of the men said as she passed. Several of the others snickered.
“All you need is one of them goofy hats,” another said.
“Not that it’s any of your beeswax,” Mirielle said. “But I’ve taken a job in the hospital. I’m going to help find a cure for this wretched disease.”
“That so?” said the first man. “Well, thank God you’re here. Ain’t like they’ve been looking for a cure for the last half-a-century.”
Mirielle raised her chin and kept walking.
“Careful you don’t chip a nail now.”
“Or smudge your perdy makeup.”
“And look out that you don’t get any of the gazeek on you.”
Mirielle made the mistake of glancing back. The man who’d last spoken was covered hairline to collar with rough, lumpy nodules.
“Otherwise, you’ll wake up with a face like mine.”
There was a sniggering quality to the way he spoke, and several of the men laughed, but his dark, flat eyes were humorless. Her brisk step flagged. Could she really accelerate her own disease by working with others whose illness was more advanced?
“That’s better,” Sister Verena pronounced when Mirielle arrived back. “Did Dr. Ross explain what your role and responsibilities would be?”
Mirielle shook her head.
“I thought not.”
“I told him I wanted to help find a cure, and he said he’d find me a position where I could do that.”
Sister Verena pursed her lips. “Dr. Ross oversees all aspects of the facility, but his role is more . . . administrative. As Sister Servant and head nurse, I’m in charge of day-to-day operations of the infirmaries and clinics.” She paused and didn’t continue until Mirielle gave a short nod.
“You’ll report to me or, in my absence, Sister Loretta.”
Wasn’t that swell, Mirielle thought. She bobbed her head again for Sister Verena to continue.
“Tuesdays, you’ll work here in the dressing clinic. Mondays and Wednesdays in the ladies’ infirmary. Fridays in the pharmacy and every other Thursday in the shot clinic.” She strode the length of the room as she spoke, and Mirielle followed after her. “You’ll be tasked with simple things. Cleaning and dressing wounds, rolling bandages, preparing supplies for disinfection, answering patient call bells, helping change their linen . . .”
Mirielle stopped, and Sister Verena spun around. “Is something wrong?”
“How’s any of that going to lead to a cure?”
“Do you have advanced schooling in chemistry?”
“No.”
“Biology, pharmacology, medicine?”
Mirielle looked down. Her shoes gleamed with the fresh polish she’d given them last night while envisioning herself surrounded by glass tubes and beakers like the photographs of Marie Curie she’d seen in Vanity Fair. “No.”
“Do you have any skills whatsoever related to the medical profession?”
“I cared for my children when they were sick.” She raised her eyes and met Sister Verena’s gaze, doing her best to look assured.
“Then you should do very well at the tasks I’ve laid out for you.” She pointed to two men soaking their feet. “Dry their legs so Sister Loretta can rebandage their wounds and then prepare fresh water for the next patients.”
Mirielle sighed and grabbed a stack of towels from the nearby linen cupboard. Sister Verena thought her useless, incapable of even menial work. Just like the men in the Rocking Chair Brigade. Just like Charlie. Well, she’d prove them all wrong.
She marched over to the first man but hesitated before bending down. Several of his toes were missing, and open sores covered his legs. This is what the men in front of house twelve had meant by the gazeek. The poisonous microbes that caused their disease. She imagined them like teeny-tiny jellyfish floating in the water and clinging with their tentacles to the man’s skin. The minute she touched him, they’d latch on to her too, adding to the gazeek already inside her.
He looked at her expectantly. She glanced from his face to his ruinous feet and shook her head. There had to be some other position for her. She’d never make it to twelve negative tests or survive until they found a cure doing this work. But before she could stand and slink away, a soft, fleshy hand patted her shoulder.
“Let me show you how it’s done, dearie.” Sister Loretta squatted down beside her with impressive ease for one so ancient. She smiled at Mirielle and grabbed a towel. “All right, Ronnie, here we go.” She spread the towel wide, and the man raised his leg. “The skin’s especially fragile after soaking, so dab, don’t rub. And don’t forget between the toes.”
With gentle, careful movements, she dried one leg, then the other. The smile she wore never faltered. “Many patients suffer nerve damage and can’t feel much anymore, so a light touch is best. And when you get fresh water, make sure it isn’t too hot or you’re liable to cause a burn.”
Mirielle nodded, remembering her own incident with the hot curling iron.
When Sister Loretta finished dabbing between what remained of the man’s toes, she draped the towel over her arm and moved the basin aside so the man could lower his legs. Milky, fetid water sloshed over the basin’s side. Mirielle dropped the towels she was holding and lurched back like a crab, smacking her cast on the hard floor. Pain radiated through her arm.
Sister Loretta mopped up the spilled water as if it were nothing.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Mirielle asked. “Of catching the gaz—the disease?”
“I came to Carville back in 1904.” She glanced at Mirielle, her expression serene. “You were probably just a little girl then. The Daughters of Charity had already been here a decade taking care of patients. Not once in all those years has anyone on staff gotten the disease.”
“Really?”
“We wash our hands and do our best to keep the place clean. It’s not a very hardy germ. Feebly contagious is all.”
“I don’t need to worry then? I mean, about making my own condition worse.”
Sister Loretta stood. “A little care, and you’ll be just fine, dearie.”
Mirielle nodded and gathered up the towels she’d thrown aside. She glanced at the basin of water, trying to rid her imagination of all the tiny, jellyfish-like germs swimming inside. After all, how many times had she waded in the ocean without being stung? She tucked the towels under her arm and picked up the basin, bracing it against her cast. She could do this. A little care, and she’d be fine. With each slow step to the hopper, she repeated Sister Loretta’s assurances in her mind.
She flinched with the splash of water when she upturned the basin over the hopper, but a strange satisfaction bloomed inside her watching the water swirl down the drain and all those tiny germs along with it.