The Bridge to Cutter Gap Page 4

  The doctor slid his fingers over Mr. Allen’s head, feeling and probing. He took the patient’s pulse, checked reflexes, opened the eyelids and stared intently into the eyes.

  Finally he spoke, his face grim. “Bob’s bad off,” he said to a woman near the bed.

  “Who’s that?” Christy whispered to Mr. Pentland.

  “That’s Mary Allen, Bob’s wife,” the mailman answered. “And the man with the beard next to her is his brother Ault.”

  The woman’s face was rigid with fear. “Is he goin’ to die, Doc?”

  The doctor’s voice was gentle. “Don’t know the answer to that, Mary. He’s in a coma now, like a deep sleep. There’s some bleeding inside his skull. If I leave the bleeding there, Bob will die.”

  He paused, looking around the room, as if lost in his own thoughts. For a moment, his eyes met Christy’s. She thought she saw the glint of tears in them.

  He probably blames me too, Christy thought. She felt like an outsider, the cause of all this horror. If she could have left, if there were anywhere for her to go, she would have.

  “There’s one chance of saving Bob, though,” the doctor continued. “I could bore a small hole in his head, to let the bad blood out and try to lift the pressure. Mary, I want to tell you the truth. I’ve never tried this operation. I saw it done once. But it’s a risky procedure. It’s up to you, Mary. Will you let me try it?”

  “I say no,” the bearded man who was Bob’s brother exclaimed. “Life and death is in the hands of the Lord. We’ve no call to tamper with it.”

  “No, Ault, you’re wrong,” Mary said. Her voice was firm. “We can’t let go so long as there’s one livin’ breath left in Bob. We’ve got six young’uns to feed. Will you try, Doc?”

  The doctor seemed unsure for a moment. Christy could see his problem. There wasn’t much chance for the injured man, with or without the operation. With a mountain cabin for an operating room, no nurses, and little light, what chance did he have? Still, if Bob Allen died during the operation, it was likely that some of these mountain people would blame the doctor.

  “All right, then,” Dr. MacNeill said at last. “We’ll go ahead.”

  He’s made a courageous decision, Christy thought. Had there ever been such an awful setting for an operation? A baby crying, the smell of chewing tobacco, a crowd of people, dirty pots and pans by the hearth. It was hardly sanitary.

  “We’ll use the kitchen table,” the doctor said. “Fairlight, I’ll need boiling water and a hammer and awl. And somebody get me a couple of sawhorses and two or three boards. That will have to do for an instrument table. Those of you who aren’t helping, stay out of the way, clear to one side. And no wailing or crying.”

  Soon the doctor’s instruments were sterile and he was prepared to operate. As some of the men lifted Bob Allen onto the makeshift operating table, Christy heard a scuffle at the door. Suddenly Bob’s wife dashed through the cabin. In her raised hands she held a razor-sharp ax. She lifted the ax high over her head and gave a mighty heave. Christy clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

  With a crash, the ax bit deep into the floorboard under the table.

  Christy stared at the ax in stunned disbelief. But the doctor continued his work, unconcerned. Then Mary took a string and tied it around one of her husband’s wrists.

  “All right, Mary,” said the doctor. “That’s fine. That should be helpful. Will some of you take care of Mary until this is over?”

  Mrs. Spencer led Mrs. Allen to a chair in a corner. “What was she doing with that ax?” Christy demanded of Mr. Pentland. “And the string . . . Is she crazy?”

  “It’s to protect Bob during the operation,” Mr. Pentland explained matter-of-factly, as if surprised that Christy didn’t understand. “The ax is to keep him from bleedin’. And the string is to keep disease away.”

  Once again Christy felt as if she’d entered a world where she didn’t belong. Here people still believed in omens and witchcraft. It was as if these people had been born a century earlier.

  “I’ll need some help here,” the doctor said, but no one moved forward in response.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “You—do you have any nursing training?”

  There was no answer. Christy realized he was speaking to her.

  “Me? I—no,” she stammered. “I’m a teacher.”

  “That’ll do just fine. Come here.”

  Once again, as she had been at the station and this morning at the general store, Christy was aware of many eyes on her. She joined the doctor at the table. He was sharpening a razor on a strip of leather.

  “You’ve got a strong stomach?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t know. I suppose so,” Christy said.

  The doctor gazed at her steadily, and for a moment she thought she saw a hint of a smile. “We’ll know soon enough, I expect,” he said. “I’m going to shave Bob’s head. I just need you to hold it steady.”

  Carefully the doctor washed his hands in a basin. As he began shaving Mr. Allen’s head, Christy tried her best to hold it steady while keeping her hands out of the way. Already, watching the smooth skin of the man’s skull appear, she felt woozy. She wondered how long she would last in her new occupation as nurse. She felt herself swaying. To steady herself, she looked up at the ceiling.

  “You still with me?” the doctor asked as he reached for his scalpel.

  Christy swallowed. Her stomach did a somersault. “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “Good. Now, I’m going to be making my incision. Then I’ll carefully drill the hole through Bob’s skull. You may not want to watch.”

  “You may be right,” Christy said, managing a weak smile.

  “Bet you weren’t expecting this when you set out for Cutter Gap,” the doctor said.

  “I’m starting to get used to the unexpected,” Christy said.

  “That’ll serve you well here.”

  Christy glanced down at the thin red line trailing his scalpel. Quickly she looked away. She met the gaze of Mrs. Spencer, who was holding Mrs. Allen’s hand. Mrs. Allen rocked back and forth, her face taut with fear.

  “Steady now,” said the doctor. “Keep a tight hold. Your legs holding out?”

  “It’s my stomach I’m worried about.”

  “Don’t think about it,” the doctor advised. “So you walked all the way here?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Christy could see the doctor setting down his scalpel and reaching for a thin, pointed metal tool. “With Mr. Pentland,” she answered.

  “In those frocks,” Dr. MacNeill said, “I’m surprised you made it this far.”

  “So am I, now.”

  The doctor laughed slightly, then fell silent. “No movement,” he commanded, his voice tense.

  The room went still. Christy held Mr. Allen’s head, his skin oddly cool against hers. Dr. MacNeill’s breath was labored. A baby cried, then stopped, as if it understood the importance of the moment.

  Christy tried not to think about what was happening just inches from her own hands. A man’s skull was being opened. His life hung in the balance. Here, in this primitive cabin in the middle of nowhere, she was helping a doctor try to save a man’s life.

  If he died, it would be her fault.

  There was only one thing to do now.

  Christy closed her eyes and began to pray.

  “That’s all, Miss Huddleston.”

  Christy looked up at the doctor in surprise. How long had he been working on Mr. Allen? How long had she been praying?

  “I can finish up here,” Dr. MacNeill said. “You get yourself some fresh air. I suspect you could use it.”

  Slowly Christy released her hold on Mr. Allen. “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure. And thank you. You did a fine job.”

  Christy allowed herself a momentary glance at the patient. Mr. Allen’s face was a ghastly white in the glow of the kerosene lamp. She caught sight of the incision the doctor had made, and her stomach climbed in
to her throat. She reached for the wall.

  “I’ll be . . . going, then,” she said, making her way dizzily through the crowd.

  Outside she breathed deeply of the cold air, trying to shake off the effect of the nightmarish scene. She shivered with the realization of what she’d just done. Was it only yesterday morning that she’d hugged her mother goodbye? How she longed for just a moment in the Huddlestons’ warm parlor with its shiny piano and cozy, welcoming furniture. She’d never appreciated the cleanliness and beauty of it all. Not until now. . . .

  She sat down on the porch steps. Around the yard, people milled in small groups. From time to time they would glance at her curiously, but no one approached. Instead, a small crowd had gathered around Mr. Spencer, who leaned against a tall pine, singing a song while he strummed a goose quill back and forth across the strings of a boxlike instrument. It had four strings and was shaped different from a guitar, with a slender waist and heart-shaped holes.

  The simple melody seemed to wing its way into her mind and heart.

  Down in the valley,

  valley so low

  Hang your head over,

  hear the wind blow.

  Hear the wind blow, love,

  hear the wind blow;

  Hang your head over,

  hear the wind blow.

  “You feelin’ poorly, Miz Huddleston?” came a low voice. “You look a little pale.”

  Christy looked up to see Fairlight Spencer. The woman’s bare feet in the snow sent a shiver through her. But all Mrs. Spencer seemed concerned about was Christy.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Christy said. “The fresh air is doing me good. But you . . . Aren’t you cold?”

  “Land sakes, no. This is pretty near springlike to me. Warmed up considerable since yesterday.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. Spencer. What is that instrument your husband is playing?”

  “That’s a dulcimer,” she replied. “Jeb, he loves to play.”

  They fell silent. Christy stared up at the tall peak nearly blotting out the winter sun. “It’s beautiful here,” she whispered. “I feel . . . like I’m in a whole different world.”

  Mrs. Spencer stared at her, as if she were trying to climb inside Christy for a moment and know what it was like. She’s only ten or so years older than I am, Christy realized, despite all the children and the lines of worry near Fairlight’s eyes.

  Mrs. Spencer looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I guess I was just wonderin’ what it would be like to come from your world. Is all your kin back in Asheville?”

  Christy nodded. A sudden ache of homesickness fell over her like a shadow. She fingered the locket around her neck. “Would you like to see them?”

  “I’d be right honored.”

  Christy took off the locket. Mrs. Spencer cupped it in her hand gently, as if she were holding a soap bubble.

  “It opens—see?” Christy showed her how to unlock the silver heart.

  Mrs. Spencer studied the pictures inside. “A mighty fine-looking family,” she said. “Would that be you? There, lookin’ all serious-like?”

  Christy laughed. “That was at the church retreat last summer, right after I decided to come here. I suppose I was feeling pretty sure of myself.”

  Silence again fell between them. Gently, Mrs. Spencer returned the necklace to Christy.

  “Mrs. Spencer,” Christy said, “I think Fairlight is such a lovely name.”

  The mountain woman looked pleased. “I’d be right honored if you called me by my front name.”

  “Good. And you can call me Christy.”

  A few feet away, some of the children began a wild snowball fight. “You’ll have your hands full over at the mission school, I expect,” Fairlight said. “The Cove is full of youngsters.” She grinned. “Mind you, some of ’em is more trouble than others.”

  “I’m sure I can handle them,” Christy said. Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound entirely convincing.

  “I’m sure you can.” Fairlight paused, staring up at the mountain peak bathed in shadow. “Still and all, if you ever . . .” She shook her head gently.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’. It was a crazy thought.”

  “Tell me,” Christy urged. “Believe me, I’ve had my share of those.”

  Fairlight shrugged. “I was just goin’ to say that if you ever need an extra pair of hands over to the school, I’d be mighty proud to help. That’s a heap of young’uns for one gal. Maybe I could clean up the school after class?”

  The words were spoken with a gentle dignity, as if a gift were being bestowed on Christy. Here was a mountain woman with a husband and five children to care for, living in such poverty that if she had any shoes, she was saving them to be worn somewhere special. Yet she was offering to help Christy, a girl she’d just met.

  Even as Christy started to answer, she realized something else. This woman was not just volunteering to do some cleaning for her—she was also holding out the gift of her friendship. For the first time since leaving home, Christy sensed the possibility of connecting with people here, of not feeling quite so completely alone.

  “Fairlight, that’s a very kind offer,” Christy said. “And I’ll accept it—on one condition. I’m a long way from home, you know, and it would be nice to feel like I had a new friend here in the mountains. And maybe there’ll be something I can do for you too.”

  The pioneer face was suddenly all smiles. “That you could, Miz Christy,” she exclaimed. Suddenly she turned shy again, her voice sinking almost to a whisper. “I can’t read nor write. Would . . . would you learn me how? I’d like that.”

  Her voice was filled with such eagerness that at that moment Christy wanted to teach this woman to read more than anything she’d ever wanted to do before.

  “I’d love to do that, Fairlight. As soon as I get settled in at the mission. It’s a promise.”

  “For sure and certain, that’s wonderful to hear,” Fairlight sighed, her face full of hope. And immediately Christy felt encouraged about her decision to come to Cutter Gap.

  A few minutes later, a voice spoke from the shadows. “You must be real tired,” Mr. Pentland said kindly. “Why don’t I take you on out to the mission? It’s not far now.”

  “But what about Mr. Allen? How is he? Is he . . .”

  “Still livin’ and breathin’,” Mr. Pentland said. “Doc says he found the blood clots all right and Bob has a fightin’ chance now. If the bleedin’ in his head don’t start up again.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. So glad,” Christy said with relief.

  Mr. Pentland reached for her suitcase. “Before you go, Doc said he wanted to see you.”

  “Me?” she asked.

  She stepped back into the dark cabin. The doctor was sitting by Bob Allen’s side, studying him seriously. He didn’t even notice Christy until she spoke. “Doctor? You wanted to see me?”

  He looked up wearily, rubbed his eyes, then gave a smile. “There she is. The Cove’s answer to Florence Nightingale. I wanted to thank you for your help.”

  “I didn’t do much,” Christy said, gazing at the motionless patient. “And to tell you the truth, my knees nearly gave out there at the end. I couldn’t wait to get outside.”

  He laughed, a deep, warm sound that filled the small cabin. “You should have seen me during my first surgery. Couldn’t eat for two days afterward. And in any case, I knew you’d be fine.”

  “You did? How could you? I didn’t even know.”

  He shrugged, then ran a hand through his messy curls. “The kind of girl who walks to the Cove in the middle of a January snowstorm has more courage than many.” He looked her up and down. “You’ll be needing it too.”

  She frowned. “Why does everyone keep warning me like that?”

  “You’ll see, soon enough,” the doctor said. He grinned. “For starters, you’ll have some characters there at the mission to deal with.”

  “Characters? You mean some of the chi
ldren I’ll be teaching?”

  “Actually, I was referring to the adults there.” He chuckled. “There’s David Grantland, the new minister. His sister, Ida, is as crotchety as they come. And then there’s Miss Alice, of course.” He shook his head. “Now that’s one interesting woman. Tough as can be.”

  “You didn’t say anything about Mr. Grantland,” Christy pointed out.

  “Didn’t I?” the doctor said, a glimmer in his eye. “David’s a good man. Just new to these parts and still learning. He’s more than a little stubborn. In any case, I have a hunch you’ll manage just fine.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She touched Bob Allen’s fingers with her own. “He’ll be all right?”

  “He’s not out of the woods yet. The next few hours will tell the tale.”

  “I feel . . . so responsible. It’s my fault he’s here.”

  “Nonsense,” the doctor said. “Don’t you go worrying about things like that. You’ll have plenty to keep you busy without taking responsibility for falling trees.”

  Christy turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Will I see you again?” She saw his smile and quickly changed her words. “I mean, how will I know if Mr. Allen is all right?”

  “Oh, you’ll hear soon enough,” said Dr. MacNeill. “Word travels fast.”

  She was halfway out the door when he added, “And yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, we’ll see each other again. I’ve no doubt of that.” He gave a fleeting smile, then turned all his attention back to his patient.

  Christy found Mr. Pentland waiting outside. She said goodbye to the Spencers, then fell into step behind the mailman. She’d had all the walking she wanted for one day—for one month, come to think of it—but she had no choice but to follow him and hope that when he said “not far” he really meant it.

  As they headed from the cabin, she could hear Mr. Spencer begin to sing again. It was such a sad melody, the kind of song that seemed to belong here in this lonely and forbidding place.