Journals cluttered the top of a small stand. She took a minute to clear out the old issues before the whole heap tumbled to the floor.
Finished with the task, she strode through the office and found her father in the surgery, filling a basin with hydrogen peroxide. Henry Lawrence, his hair falling across his forehead, looked tired, as he frequently did of late, even a tad peaked. She believed doctoring weighed him down physically and mentally. Yet he kept working, seeing to the sick, rarely taking time off except to attend church on Sunday. He should take it easy and eat better. His grandsons needed him. Didn’t he know how much they all loved him?
Earlier that day, she’d taken action she hoped would ease her father’s load. And free her to pursue her dream. Thanks to an unexpected inheritance from her late father-in-law, she had the money for medical school. If God wanted her to practice medicine, she’d be accepted at the Central College of Physicians and Surgeons. But she couldn’t leave her father to handle the practice alone.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Her father looked up and smiled, the corners of his gentle hazel eyes crinkling in his round face. “Hello, kitten. Got the boys off and now you’re checking on your old man?”
“Exactly.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s such a pretty day. Want to take your grandsons fishing after school?”
“Wish I could.” He screwed the cap onto the bottle of antiseptic and tucked it into the glass-front cabinet, banging the door shut. “I’ve got office hours all afternoon.”
“Well, at least come to supper tonight.”
“Sounds good. Six okay?”
Nodding, she laid a hand on his arm. “You look tired.”
“I spent the biggest part of the night at the Shriver place, bringing their firstborn into the world. A howling, healthy, eight-pound boy.” He gave a wry grin. “They named him Quincy. Imagine tagging a child with such a name.”
Normally Mary loved to hear about a new baby, sharing her father’s joy of the miracle of birth. But she shook her head, only half listening, thinking about her father’s lack of sleep. “Daddy, don’t you think it’s time to bring someone into the practice?”
Henry’s head snapped up and his gaze met hers. “Now, why would I do that?”
“Well, for one thing, you’re not getting any younger. And for another, you work too hard.”
“I’m fifty-one, not ancient, and I don’t work harder than any other small-town doctor. Besides, I have your help.”
“Doc Roberts didn’t have any warning before his fatal heart attack.” She sighed at the stubborn set of her father’s jaw, then bustled about the room, emptying the wastepaper can, checking and laying out supplies, doing all she could to ease his burden. “You’re handling his patients and your own. You’re not getting enough rest.”
“Babies come when they decide—not to fit my schedule.”
“True, but your days are so full that you have little time for the boys. They need a man’s influence.”
Her father’s brow furrowed. “I know they do, honey,” he said, gathering the instruments out of his bag. “I’ll try to spend more time with them. If no one gets sick, maybe we can go fishing Saturday afternoon.”
How likely would that be in a town this size? Then her heart squeezed. She shouldn’t pressure her father to do more, even if the “more” involved relaxing with his grandsons. “Let me clean those for you.”
“Thanks.” Her father dropped into a chair.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.” Mary gave a wide smile. “I heard from the placement committee. The Willowbys relinquished their guardianship and asked to assume the role of Ben’s grandparents, instead of his parents.”
“From the look on your face, I’d say the news was good.”
“The committee gave me permanent custody of Ben.” Her vision blurred with tears of gratitude. Ben, the little boy she shared a bond with, was now her son, just as much as Michael and Philip. A wave of tenderness rippled through her. She’d do everything in her power to give her boys the happiness they deserved.
“Even before his apoplexy, Judge Willowby told me they could barely keep up with a four-year-old boy. Since the stroke, he’s naturally troubled they won’t live to see Ben grown.” He frowned. “What about the Children’s Aid Society’s rule against giving custody to a single woman?”
“As a widow with two sons of my own, the committee felt that qualified me to raise another child.” She swiped a hand at her tears. “That I’m already taking care of Ben for the Willowbys worked in my favor. They didn’t want to move him again.”
“Thank you, God. With your brother-in-law sitting on the committee, I felt reasonably sure of the outcome. Still, a couple of those members adhere to rules as if Moses himself brought them down from on high.”
Laughing, Mary gave her father a kiss. “I can always count on your support.”
She returned to the counter to wash, soak in hydrogen peroxide and then dry the equipment her father had used to deliver the Shriver baby. Her father kept his surgery and office immaculate, while his quarters lay in shambles. She tried to keep up with the cleaning, but he could destroy her efforts faster than her boys put together. When she finished, she stowed the instruments in his black leather case then set the bag in its customary spot on the table near the door, where he could grab it on the way to the next house call.
Mary turned to say something to her father. He’d nodded off in his chair. As she prepared to tiptoe out of the room, he roused and ran a hand over his chin. “Guess I’d better shave. Don’t want to scare my patients.”
In the backroom, she filled the ironstone bowl on the washstand with hot water from the teakettle, and then sat at the small drop-leaf table to watch her father shave. He lathered the brush and covered his cheeks and chin with soap. Since Sam’s death, she’d missed this masculine routine, a small thing, but small things often caught her unaware and left her reeling.
If her father didn’t slow down, she could lose him too. Yet, Henry Lawrence was as stubborn as a weed when it came to helping others. No point in beating a dead horse…for now.
She’d tell him about the peddler. Surely he’d share her concern. “You won’t believe what’s going on downtown, Daddy. Why, it’s enough to turn my stomach.”
“Let me guess.” He winked at her in the mirror. “Joe Carmichael organized a spitting contest on the square.” He scraped his face clean with his razor and rinsed the blade in the bowl.
Mary planted her hands on her hips. “I’m serious.”
“Your feathers do look a mite ruffled.” He patted his face dry with a towel. “So tell me, what’s wrong?”
“Some fraud is selling patent medicine. He’s making all kinds of claims. Says it’ll cure upset stomachs and headaches, a baby’s colic. People couldn’t buy it fast enough, even after I warned them the bottle probably held 90-proof.”
“My precious girl, you’ve got to stop
