Hidden Jewel Page 7

  “Why wasn’t she still upstairs?” I whispered to Dr. Weller when he emerged after the failed effort to revive her had ended.

  “They sent her down two days ago because she had made enough progress and they needed room for another patient.” He shrugged. “Can’t always predict it,” he said and then flashed a challenging smile. “Still want to be a doctor?”

  I looked back at the room in which the dead woman still lay. Her family didn’t know yet, but I was sure she would soon be mourned and missed. When I envisioned the saddened children and grandchildren, I felt anger boil in the base of my stomach. If I had been her doctor, she wouldn’t have been moved out of the cardiac care unit.

  “More than ever,” I replied.

  He tilted his head back and laughed. “Maybe you’re the real thing. Something tells me I’ve found the right study helper.” He looked back at the room and sighed. “Gotta go do the paperwork,” he said. “That’s a part of being a doctor you’ll soon learn to hate too.”

  Maybe I was naive, but I thought there was no part of being a doctor I would hate.

  I hadn’t done all that much, but when my shift ended, I felt exhausted. Most of it was from the tension of starting the work and the emotional strain that resulted from seeing someone die. I changed back into my street clothing and left the corridor with Sophie. She and I stepped into Mrs. Morgan’s office to punch out.

  “How did you do?” she asked and looked at Sophie.

  “She did fine, just fine,” Sophie said quickly. “She didn’t throw up once.”

  Mrs. Morgan smiled. “Well, that’s an accomplishment. Here is your regular card. Punch in when you begin your shift and punch out when you end, and remember to buy some white shoes,” she reminded me.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sophie and I left the hospital. The humidity hadn’t diminished a degree, but the sun had gone down enough to lower the temperature.

  “My mother says I’m lucky because I work in an air-conditioned hospital,” Sophie said as we started down the driveway.

  “What does she do?”

  “Laundry.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He works in the Quarter. He’s a cook. I got two younger sisters still in school and a brother who’s in the army. What about you?”

  “I have twin brothers, twelve years old. Where do you live, Sophie?”

  “On the other side of the Quarter. I take the car to Canal Street.”

  We waited for the streetcar together.

  “How long have you worked in the hospital?” I asked her.

  “Little more than a year.”

  “Don’t you want to return to school? There’s a lot more for you to learn,” I said.

  She dropped her eyes quickly. “Can’t,” she said. “Gotta work.”

  “Why? Doesn’t your father make good money as a cook?” I knew good cooks in the Quarter were valuable.

  Sophie shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “We don’t know for sure.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “He doesn’t live with us,” she told me just as the streetcar came around to our station. She hurriedly boarded, I sat beside her, and we both looked out the window as the car rattled down the track. “He doesn’t even come to the house anymore,” she continued. “He just sends some money around from time to time. If I want to see him, I have to go down to the restaurant, but he never has time to talk much.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. When the car approached my station and I stood up, Sophie looked very impressed.

  “You live in the Garden District?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I never even walked down here,” she said.

  “Maybe one day you can stop off and have dinner with me,” I suggested.

  “Really?” Her smile faded. “I usually gotta get right home to help Mama.”

  “Maybe you can work it out,” I suggested. “See you tomorrow. Thanks for helping me get started. Bye.”

  “Bye,” she called.

  When I got home everyone wanted to hear about my first day at work. The twins made faces and groaned when I described some of the cleanup work I had to do, but when I told them about the death of Mrs. Conti, the twins’ eyes lit up with interest.

  “You saw a dead woman?” Pierre asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you touch her?” Jean said.

  “No.”

  “Did she smell?”

  “I think we can change the topic until after dinner,” Daddy said. “Don’t you, Pearl?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  I went on to tell them about Sophie, but the twins weren’t interested in anything except Mrs. Conti. When I told Daddy about Dr. Weller, he sat back and looked at Mommy.

  “He just met you and he wants to make you dinner?” she asked.

  “I guess because we aren’t going to study until after work. Why?”

  Daddy looked troubled.

  “I’m sure he’s just impressed with Pearl, and since she’s shown an interest in medicine …” Mommy said.

  Daddy thought for a moment and relaxed. “I suppose you’re right, Ruby. You usually are when it comes to people. Your mother’s going to have a new exhibition in two weeks,” he added proudly. “And your picture is going to be part of it.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mommy.”

  We talked about Mommy’s artwork, and after a dessert of crème brûlée, Daddy took me to buy some soft-soled shoes, and Mommy went to work in her studio.

  “Well,” Daddy said in the car, “after being on the front lines, what do you think?”

  “I think I want to become a doctor even more, Daddy.” He nodded. “What really stopped you, Daddy?” I asked again. I knew his family had the money to put him through medical school and that he had been a very good student.

  “My family was upset with me, especially after your mother became pregnant. I was very upset with myself for leaving Ruby, and for a while I was self-destructive. I drank heavily while I was in Europe, and I wasted my time and talent. And then …”

  He paused and I saw how his eyes focused on a memory. “And then I heard that Ruby had married Paul. I soaked myself in self-pity, cut classes, and wasted time. Suddenly one morning there was a knock on my apartment door. When I opened it, I found your aunt Gisselle standing there. For a moment I thought she was Ruby. They had such identical faces. I let myself imagine, and your aunt Gisselle encouraged my illusions. The rest you know. Gisselle and I were married, and I returned to work in the Dumas enterprises.

  “That’s why I am so happy you are pursuing the career I cast aside,” he said, turning to me with tears burning behind his eyelids. “I know you will be a wonderful doctor, Pearl.”

  “I’ll try, Daddy,” I said, my heart aching, my throat closing as I swallowed my tears. “I’ll try.”

  After we returned home, the twins pleaded with me to tell them more about Mrs. Conti and what it was like to see a corpse. I finally pulled out some of my books on anatomy and let them look at the pictures. They were fascinated with what was inside their bodies, but Jean was upset about it as well.

  “I’m glad we have skin covering everything,” he remarked. “So I don’t have to look at it.”

  Pierre laughed, but I closed the books and lectured both of them about how wonderful the human body was. “The human body is one of the most perfect creations in the universe,” I explained.

  “If it’s so perfect, why do we get sick?” Jean demanded.

  “It’s perfect but not invulnerable,” I said.

  He grimaced with confusion.

  “She means you can’t stop the germs from flying up your nose or into your mouth,” Pierre said. “Unless you walk around with your nose plugged up and your mouth taped shut. But then they could get in your ears, right, Pearl?”

  “So we’ll plug up our ears,” Jean said.

  “Then you can’t hear.”

  “So we always get sick,” Jean concluded sadly.

  �
�But that’s why we need doctors, right, Pearl?” Pierre asked.

  I smiled. “Yes, Pierre.”

  “Couldn’t the doctors stop Mrs. Conti from dying?” Jean asked.

  “She was old. Her body was tired.”

  “She was worn out, like our tricycles,” Pierre explained.

  Jean nodded, and then he suddenly burst into a flashbulb smile. “We’ll have a doctor living with us and keeping us from getting too sick all the time. We’ll have Pearl!

  I laughed. “It will be a while yet, Jean.”

  “And she won’t be living with us. She’ll be grown up and married with her own children,” Pierre explained.

  Jean’s smile faded.

  “But I promise. I’ll always look after you two,” I said, which restored the brightness to Jean’s face. “Now go up and get ready for bed. Everyone, especially a young person growing a foot a day, needs rest.”

  “Aw …”

  “Or else those organs in your body will shrivel up,” Pierre threatened. Jean’s eyes widened and he turned to me.

  “No, they won’t,” I assured him. “But go on.”

  They jumped to their feet.

  “Good night, Pearl,” Pierre said.

  “Good night, Pearl.” Jean smiled impishly. “I hope you don’t have a nightmare about Mrs. Conti.”

  Pierre pulled him out, and they scurried up the stairs, laughing.

  It wasn’t too much longer before I followed them to bed myself. I had just crawled under my covers when the phone rang. It was Catherine. We hadn’t spoken since graduation night. I sensed a formality in her voice. There wasn’t any of the warmth and excitement of our former relationship.

  “Did you start working in the hospital?” she asked.

  “Today.”

  “How did it go?” she asked with little real interest.

  “I think I’ll learn a lot,” I said. “An intern asked me to help him study.”

  “Oh? What’s he look like?”

  “It’s nothing like that. He just wanted someone to help him keep sharp. An intern’s really still a student. It’s a great opportunity for me, too.”

  “Good for you.” After a moment she said, “Everyone’s still mad at you for not going to Lester’s. They think you’re a snob.”

  “I’m not running for political office,” I said dryly.

  “You shouldn’t forget who your real friends are,” she said. “Even if you are the smartest girl in the school.”

  “I never forgot them, but as I told you, real friends protect and look after each other.”

  “Everyone is the butt of a joke sometimes, Pearl. Don’t you think you overreacted?”

  “No.”

  She was silent a moment and then decided to fire with both guns. “Claude had a good time with Diane. They went into one of the guest rooms and didn’t come out until morning. They’re seeing each other regularly now.”

  “Then maybe that was meant to be,” I said.

  Catherine sighed with frustration. “I swear you are the hardest person to be friends with,” she concluded.

  I was speechless for a moment. Was she right? Things that interested most girls my age didn’t seem to be as important to me. Was that a curse or a blessing?

  “Anyway, we’re going away for our summer holiday. I won’t see you for three weeks. I suppose you don’t care.”

  “I said I was disappointed about what happened and what you did, Catherine, but I hope you will see my point and we’ll still be friends.”

  “And I hope the lifeguard I met last year is working at the beach again. He thought I was too young for him, but maybe he’ll change his mind this year.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-three. I know. You think he’s too old for me,” she said quickly.

  “No. That’s not too old for you.”

  “Really? I don’t think so either.” She lowered her voice. “But my parents wouldn’t be happy. How would your parents feel about it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose if we really cared for each other, they wouldn’t complain.”

  “Your mother’s so understanding. Well, maybe I’ll drop you a postcard.”

  “Do that, Catherine.”

  “Don’t give anyone the wrong pills,” she warned.

  “I’m not permitted to dispense medication. I’m just an aide.”

  “Well don’t give anyone the wrong aid,” she said and laughed. “Look. I’m sorry. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the girls went too far and I should have told you right away, but I didn’t want everyone to hate me, too.”

  “Too?”

  “You know what I mean. Anyway, I said I was sorry.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Have fun.”

  “I will,” she promised and we hung up. I sat there for a moment thinking. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the voice of a little girl trying to hold on, trying to keep me from being so serious. But it was a voice that was dwindling and barely audible anymore.

  Whether I liked it or not, I was rushing headfirst into adulthood now. And there was nothing to do about it but sit back and enjoy the ride.

  I fell asleep quickly after Catherine and I spoke, but I did have a nightmare about Mrs. Conti. I saw her eyes pop open when I returned to her room, and they were glassy and milky white. Then I thought about Dr. Weller and his impish smile. “Still want to be a doctor?” he had challenged.

  “More than ever.”

  I mumbled it in my sleep.

  “More than ever.”

  4

  Life Lessons

  “If you and I are going to be study partners,” Dr. Weller said as we left the hospital the next day, “you should call me Jack. Dr. Weller is too formal after we walk out of there,” he said, nodding back toward the hospital.

  “Jack?”

  “That’s my name. Oh, my real name is Jackson Marcus Weller, which is what I will hang on my shingle. I was named after my great-grandfather on my mother’s side. I’d rather be just Jack, though, especially to people I admire and people I hope will admire me,” he said. Then he put his hand on my waist to turn me to the right. “My apartment is just a few blocks this way,” he said. “You don’t mind walking, do you?”

  “No.” His hand lingered on my hip, his fingers pressing with authority.

  “I have a car, but I seldom use it. Driving is such a hassle in the city. I’d much rather walk or use public transportation.” He drew his hand away when we started to walk again.

  “Did you grow up in New Orleans?” I asked.

  “Grow up?” He smiled and then laughed. “Most of my relatives and friends think I haven’t. They think because I’m going to be a doctor, I should look, act, and feel like an old man. Who trusts a young doctor these days? In almost every other profession, youth is an advantage, but in medicine …” He paused and turned to me. “My exroommate actually dyes his hair gray. Do you believe that?”

  I shook my head.

  He stared at me a moment and relaxed his lips, a look of pity in his eyes. “Actually, I feel sorry for you. It’s twice as hard for a woman to become a doctor. You’ve got to be twice as good. But,” he said, winking, “I think you might just have the grit to make it. Now,” he said holding up his hand, palm toward me, “don’t tell me anything else about yourself. Let me guess.”

  We continued, strolling at a slower pace. It wasn’t quite as humid as it had been the day before. The sun was low enough to leave the eastern sky a darker blue so that the billowing clouds looked as white as milk. Toward the south a single-engine plane was dragging a banner that advertised a jazz and dinner special in the French Quarter. We could hear the streetcar rattling along past the palm trees behind us. The birds were twittering noisily. I imagined they were filled with news that they had stored up like acorns during the impressive heat and humidity. Now that they were cooler and able to gossip, they did so nonstop.

  The street lanterns were just flickering, it not being dark enough to turn themselves
on full. Less humidity seemed to free the scent of camellias and of the banana and magnolia trees that grew along and behind the pike fences of the houses we passed as we ambled along the sidewalk, which in New Orleans was known as a banquette. Most banquettes were built two to three feet high, mainly to keep water out of houses. Across the way I saw three Tulane summer school coeds giggling and walking while two boys in a convertible followed slowly and tried to get their attention.

  “You’re not an only child, and you’re not spoiled. That’s for sure,” Jack Weller began.

  “I have twin brothers, twelve years old.”

  “Uh-huh.’

  “But I am spoiled,” I admitted.

  “Sure. All spoiled young women agree to work as nurse’s aides for peanuts and are willing to clean up after sick people,” he remarked. He gazed at me again. “You’re not spoiled.”

  “I’m spoiled, but I’m determined,” I replied. He laughed. “I like that. You’re from a well-to-do family, right?”

  “Yes. But did you really guess that or did you cross-examine Sophie?” I fired back quickly.

  He laughed again. “You are a bright girl. All right. I’ll confess I asked Sophie some questions. Just down here,” he said seizing my hand and turning us into a side street toward an apartment building with a canopy that sagged in the middle. The gray stucco walls were badly chipped and cracked and the front door was in dire need of paint or wood stain. “I want to prepare you,” he said as we approached the entrance. “I have only a studio apartment. Someone from the Garden District won’t think much of it, I suspect.”

  “I’m spoiled, but I’m not a snob,” I said.

  His smile widened again and he opened the door. We stepped through a short entryway into a small lobby, the walls of which were faded and smudged. Here and there the dark brown tile floor was chipped. The only furnishing was a rickety table with an oval mirror in a dull white frame above it. The aroma of shrimp gumbo filled the air.

  “The stairs are faster than the elevator,” he said, nodding toward them. I followed him up three flights, the old, worn steps moaning complaints at our every step. “At least I have a little view,” he said putting his key into the lock.