Olivier Desplierre, fifteen, was on duty with Domenica on the shift. The night watchman/janitor fought nodding off to sleep in his chair. Domenica felt compassion for the boy—he reminded her of Aldo. She placed her hand gently on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Nurse Cabrelli.” Olivier sat up.
“You’re going to get a stiff neck sleeping like that. There’s a cot in Room 13. Go.”
Domenica pulled a basket of freshly laundered cloth bandages from underneath the desk. She had begun to fold the fabric into tight squares when her eye caught a beam of light spilling out from the closed door of the chapel. Maybe a vagrant had snuck into the chapel while she made her rounds. The nuns warned the nurses about locals who used the hospital like the public park.
Domenica opened the chapel door wide and said, “Bonjour,” loudly before peering inside. The pews were empty. She exhaled. The light had come from the sanctuary lamp that flickered on the altar near the tabernacle. She blessed herself with holy water from the door-side font and was pulling the chapel door closed behind her when the entrance doors of the hospital flew open.
A raucous group of men, reeking of motor oil and smoke, their skin covered in soot, piled into the lobby. Domenica assumed they were firemen, but upon closer inspection, their uniforms, what was left of them, were once navy and white. Some of the men were shirtless; a few were barefoot. They made such a racket, Domenica could not sort out what they were saying in English because they spoke so fast. The tallest of the lot entered carrying an injured man in his arms. The men parted in deference to let them through.
The tall man’s face was covered in black soot like the others’。 She wouldn’t have been able to provide a single detail about the man because something came over her as she looked up at him. The lights flickered. Her stomach fluttered. Her pulse raced. The sound in the room went away. Domenica looked at the clock; the second hand swept around its face as usual. She looked up at the ceiling, certain the bulbs had blown in the chandelier, changing the chemistry of light and dark in the lobby, but the bulbs blazed bright white.
“There’s been a fire. This fellow took the brunt of it. He needs a doctor,” the man said to her.
Olivier, roused by the ruckus in the lobby, pushed through the throng to get to Domenica.
“Call Dr. Chalfant. Ring the bell at Fatima and go get Sister Marie Bernard in the convent,” Domenica told him.
“Right away.”
“Follow me.” Domenica led the man carrying the injured sailor to the closest examining room. “You can put him down here. I’ve sent for the doctor. You may wash up in the sink.” Domenica turned to go.
The stranger grabbed her arm. “Stay with him. Please.”
“I have to admit the injured,” she said calmly. “Hospital protocol.”
“Please, give him a look. He was in the boiler room,” the man explained. “He hasn’t woken up since the explosion.”
“He’s in shock. He needs to see the doctor.”
“Please. Won’t you give him a look?”
Domenica placed her hands on the young man. She observed his injuries. When she put her hands on his face, his eyes fluttered open. “You’re going to be all right,” she assured him. She lifted his head and placed a pillow under it.
Sister Marie Bernard barreled through the door, tying a nurse’s apron over her habit. “What have we got, Cabrelli?” She washed her hands at the basin.
“He passed out. Abrasions on his chest, and a bad burn on his left arm, and a deep gash on his leg. That’s at first glance.”
“I’ll fix him up. Clear the lobby. Assign the patients in descending order of the severity of their wounds to the examination rooms.”
“Yes, Sister.”
Stephanie, her hair tied up in curling rags, joined them in the room. “Reporting for assignment, Sister.”
Sister took a quick look at the nurse and issued instructions. “Arlette. Take over for me here. Clean the wound on his arm and dress it. The doctor will have to examine his leg.”
The stranger followed Sister Marie Bernard and Domenica out of the room. He tried to eavesdrop on their conversation as they walked down the corridor, but Sister Marie Bernard had lowered her voice so only Domenica could hear her. “Have Nurse Arlette remove her curling rags when she’s done.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“And what kind of a nurse is woken out of a deep sleep in the middle of the night wearing lipstick?”
“One that wasn’t asleep, Sister,” Domenica answered quietly.