Doctors Read Online Free Page B

Perhaps because the little girl never once complained of feeling sick. Only when he found her unconscious one morning did Luis realize to his horror what was wrong.
    It was respiratory polio, the virus ferociously attacking the upper part of the spinal cord. Isobel could not breathe even with the help of an iron lung. She was dead before nightfall.
    Luis was wild with self-recrimination. He was a doctor, dammit, a doctor! He should have been able to save his own daughter!
    Laura refused to go to sleep. She was afraid that if she closed her eyes she too would not wake. Barney kept her company in a nightlong vigil of silent mourning as she sat in thesuffocating heat of their living room, her insides bruised and aching.
    At one point he whispered, “Laura, it’s not your fault.”
    She seemed not to hear him. Her eyes remained unfocused.
    “Shut up, Barney,” she retorted, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    But inwardly she was grateful—and relieved—that he had put into words her feelings of guilt for being alive when her sister was dead.
    Estelle was the only one capable of making the funeral arrangements. She assumed that the Castellanos would want a Catholic ceremony, and so contacted Father Hennessey at St. Gregory’s. But the moment she announced the plans, Luis bellowed, “No priest, no priest—not unless he can tell me why God took my little girl!” Estelle dutifully called Father Hennessey to say he would not be needed after all.
    Then Harold came over and tried to persuade the Castellanos that something had to be said. They could not simply part with their daughter and say nothing. Inez looked at her husband, for she knew it was up to him. He lowered his head and then mumbled, “Okay, Harold, you’re the scholar, you talk. Only I forbid you to mention the name of God.”
    The two families watched in the unpitying August sun as the little casket was lowered into the ground. Barney reached out and took Laura’s hand. She squeezed it tightly as if it could close off her tears. And as they stood around the grave, Harold Livingston read a few lines from a poem by Ben Jonson about the death of a brave Spanish infant.
    A lily of a day
    Is fairer far in May
,
    Although it fall and die that night
,
    It was the plant and flower of light.
    In small proportions we just beauties see
,
    And in short measures life may perfect be.
    He raised his head from the book and inquired, “Would anyone else like to say something?”
    Finally, from the abyss in Luis Castellano’s soul came the barely audible words, “
Adios, niña.”
    They drove homeward, all the car windows open in the vainhope that a gust of air would relieve the intolerable heaviness. Inez kept repeating in soft, plaintive tones, “
Yo no sé que hacer
”—I don’t know what to do.
    At a loss for words, Estelle suddenly heard herself say, “My mother came over from Queens. She’s preparing supper for all of us.”
    The ride continued in silence.
    As they were crossing the Triborough Bridge, Luis Castellano said to his friend, “Do you like whiskey, Harold?”
    “Uh—well, yes. Of course.”
    “I have two bottles a patient gave me for Christmas. In the war, we sometimes used it as anesthetic. I would be grateful if you joined me, amigo.”
    Laura was back in her own home, but she still could not go to sleep. Nor would she talk, although Barney sat faithfully nearby. Her mother and Estelle were upstairs in Isobel’s old room doing something. Taking off the sheets? Packing her clothes? Maybe even just holding her dead sister’s dolls—as if something of her living spirit still clung to them.
    Now and then, Laura could perceive from above the almost feral sounds of Inez’s grief. But it was mostly the noise of raucous male laughter that filled the house. Harold and Luis were in his study getting very very drunk, Luis bellowing at Harold to join some of the “good old songs—like
Francisco Franco nos quiere