* * *
—
A thin coating of snow had fallen overnight, and sporadic patches of frozen water dotted our path along the busy streets. “It’s ice,” Mother said, noting my intrigued stares. “Don’t step on it or you’ll fall. Now, keep up.”
The street was noisy with the sounds of horse carts and foot traffic, and the wind blew so cold that it stung the inside of my nose and caused my eyes to water. Within minutes I was thinking that perhaps I regretted my decision to quit the warm, cozy confines of Mrs. Gregory’s home. “Hurry along, Marjorie,” Mother said, pulling my hand to keep me going at her quick pace as she wheeled Papa’s chair across Washington Avenue. His eyes were shut; I only knew he was breathing because I saw the weak streams of vapor that slipped out of his nose every few seconds.
Finally, we reached the campus and approached the main building by way of a neat path that cut through a patchwork of frigid but tidy lawns. The grass was ice-wrapped and crunchy beneath my feet. The San grounds were huge, clearly the prosperous headquarters of a thriving empire, what with the sprawling network of tall brick buildings, each lined with rows of gleaming windows. The central hospital building stood back a ways from the street. At the building’s tallest point, an American flag flapped in a bitter wind that promised more snowfall.
Mother marched like a soldier, pushing Papa’s wheelchair briskly through the final steps and toward the large front doors. As we entered the lobby, a blast of warm air greeted us, along with a clean, lemon-tinged scent. Potted plants filled the bright space, and the ceiling soared overhead to a height unlike anything I’d ever seen. The space was vast, but for me the best things about it were the warmth and the lack of wind, entirely unlike the gray streets along which we’d trudged to get there. I wiped my seeping eyes.
“Stop your fidgeting,” Mother scolded, her voice a tight whisper as she looked around the busy lobby.
We could not have been standing there more than a minute, studying our surroundings, before a slender, smiling nurse approached us, her apron and skirt starched white and stiff. “Welcome to the Battle Creek Sanitarium,” she offered in greeting, her expectant smile inviting us to offer her information about ourselves and our reasons for being there.
“Yes, thank you,” Mother said, removing her gloves. “My name is Mrs. Charles W. Post, and this is my husband, Mr. Charles W. Post. He is here for treatment with Dr. Kellogg.”
“Yes, of course.” The nurse nodded, clearly having been aware before Mother’s words that Papa was to be the patient. She scribbled something in a booklet with a pencil.
“Will we be seeing the doctor this morning?” Mother asked. Her eyes leaked moisture onto her red cheeks, and I thought it was nice to see a bit of color on Mother’s face, even if that color did come from a harsh winter wind.
“Dr. Kellogg?” the nurse asked, looking up from her papers.
“Yes,” Mother said.
“Ma’am, Dr. Kellogg has thousands of patients.” The nurse glanced around the crowded, sprawling lobby, as if to indicate—in case Mother had not yet noticed—just how far the doctor’s domain stretched. “But yes, Dr. Kellogg does see each patient personally. Though I cannot say precisely when he will see Mr. Post.”
“Well, I hope it will be soon,” said Mother, her gaze sliding toward Papa’s slumped figure. He had not spoken much that day, other than some faint and indecipherable mewling. Even at my young age, I knew what Mother was refraining from saying: by the look of it, we didn’t have much time.
The nurse stood slightly taller, fixing a cool, courteous smile to her features as she said: “You have come to the right place, Mrs. Post. Now, we will take Mr. Post with us for some preliminary examinations and questioning, and you may come back this evening to fetch him.”
At this, my father slumped even deeper into his chair, as if yielding the final reserves of authority over his body to this new figure and to this bright, clean place. My mother, gripping the back of his chair, eventually stepped to the side, leaving the handlebars for the nurse to grab. But I edged closer to Papa, my body unwilling to cede its place beside him. The nurse looked down at me, her smile flickering for just a moment with a peevish blink, but then her features softened. Her chin tilted downward as her eyes met mine, and she said, “Not to worry, my dear. We shall take fine care of your father.”
You had better. My young mind reeled, even if the words remained unspoken. Because he is the only one I’ve got.