because her skin was the same temperature as mine. What concerned me was the pressure of her blood against my fingers. Pulse force bounding, I wrote down. Hard to tell how much was due to her agitation.
I observed her respiratory rate now.
Isn’t it a mercy you’ve only a light dose, Mrs. Garrett? I was the same myself back in September.
I was trying to distract her because one never let a patient know one was counting her breaths or self-consciousness would alter the rhythm. Respirations 20, I wrote.
Delia Garrett narrowed her pretty eyes. What’s your name—your Christian name?
It was against protocol to share any personal information; Sister Finnigan taught us to maintain gravitas by staying aloof. If you let patients become familiar, they’ll respect you less.
But these were strange times and this was my ward, and if I had to run it today, I’d do it my way. Not that it felt as if I were running anything, exactly; just coping, hour by hour.
So I found myself saying, It’s Julia, as it happens.
A rare smile from Delia Garrett. I like that. So did they jam you in a storeroom, Julia Power, between a dying woman and one who’s off her head?
I found myself warming to the wealthy Protestant for all her obstreperousness. I shook my head. I was nursed at home, by my brother, actually. But when you’re expecting, this flu can lead to…complications.
(I didn’t want to spook her by listing them: miscarriage, premature labour, stillbirth, even maternal death.)
Any headache this morning?
A bit of pounding, Delia Garrett admitted with a surly look.
Where?
She swept her hands from her bosom up to her ears as if brushing away flies.
Problems with your vision at all?
Delia Garrett blew out air. What’s there to look at in here?
I nodded at her magazine.
I can’t settle to reading; I just like the photographs.
She sounded so young then.
Is the baby giving you a lot of bother—kicking and such?
She shook her head and covered a splutter. It’s just the cough and the aching all over.
Perhaps you’ll get another note from Mr. Garrett today.
Her lovely features darkened. Where’s the sense in forbidding our families to visit when the whole city’s riddled with this grippe anyway?
I shrugged. Hospital rules.
(Though I suspected it wasn’t so much about quarantining our patients as sparing our skeleton crew the extra trouble.)
But if you’re the acting sister today, you must have authority to give me a cough mixture and let me out of here, especially since the baby’s not coming till Christmas!
Unlike our poorer patients, Delia Garrett knew exactly when she was due; her family physician had confirmed the pregnancy back in April.
I’m sorry, Mrs. Garrett, but only a doctor can discharge you.
Her mouth twisted into a knot.
Should I spell out the risks? Which would be worse for her thumping blood, the frustration of feeling confined for no good reason or the anxiety of knowing that there were grave reasons?
Listen, you’re doing yourself harm by getting worked up. It’s bad for you and the baby. Your pulse force—
How to explain hypertension to a woman with no more than a ladylike education?
—the force with which the blood rushes through the vessels, it’s considerably higher than we like it to be.
Her lower lip stuck out. Isn’t force a good thing?
Well. Think of turning a tap up too high.
(The Garretts would probably have hot water laid on day and night, whereas most of my patients had to lug babies down three or four flights to the cold trickle of the courtyard tap.)
She sobered. Oh.
So the best thing you can do to get home as soon as possible is keep as quiet and cheerful as you can.
Delia Garrett flopped back on the pillows.
All right?
When will I get some breakfast? I’ve been awake for hours and I’m weak.
Appetite is a splendid sign. They’re understaffed in the kitchens, but I’m sure the trolley will be up before long. For now, do you need the lavatory?
She shook her head. Sister Luke brought me already.
I scanned the chart for bowel movements. None yet; the flu often caused the pipes to seize up. I fetched the castor oil from the cupboard and poured a spoonful. To keep you regular, I told her.
Delia Garrett screwed up her face at the taste but swallowed it.
I turned to the other cot. Mrs. Noonan?
The befogged woman didn’t look up, even.
Would you care for the lavatory now?
Ita Noonan didn’t resist as I lifted the humid blanket and got her out of bed. Clutching my arm, she staggered to the door into