“The Post family.” Dr. Kellogg tented his fingers close to his goateed chin, and I noticed the immaculate crescents of his ten tight-clipped fingernails. He went on: “Charles William Post. Chief medical complaints: nervous disorder, melancholy, digestive trouble, lassitude.”
Mother nodded as the doctor ticked through a list of ailments with which she was all too familiar. It was said that Dr. Kellogg knew the details of every patient who stepped onto his campus; one did not become the most famous doctor in the world without a blade-sharp mind and a knack for retaining particulars.
Dr. Kellogg fixed his light, bespectacled gaze on Mother as he continued: “Mrs. Post, your first name is Ella, is it not?”
Mother leaned back in her chair, the faintest hint of color tinting her otherwise pallid cheeks. “Why, yes. Ella Merriweather Post.”
Dr. Kellogg nodded. “A fine name. My wife’s, as well.”
Mother smiled, a fleeting, sheepish expression entirely unusual on her ordinarily taut features.
Then the doctor turned his piercing, pale eyes on me. “And you, young lady, are named…？”
I tilted toward Papa in his wheelchair. “This is Marjorie,” Mother said. “It’s an honor for both of us to make your acquaintance, Dr. Kellogg.”
Both? I thought. Aren’t we three in number? Or perhaps she had already stopped counting Papa.
“And…the girl…she can stay for this?” Dr. Kellogg arched a tidy white eyebrow.
“Oh yes,” said Mother, her lips tight once more. “She’s seen everything. She and her father are very close.”
Dr. Kellogg cleared his throat before he continued. “You do know, Mrs. Post, that I am not only a doctor, but an inventor as well?”
Mother nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Dr. Kellogg weighed his next words in silence a moment, pressing his narrow fingers flat on top of the polished surface of his dark wooden desk, so that the crescents of his nails drained of color. “I believe that this nation is making itself sick with the poison we put into our bodies. I don’t allow my patients to eat the stuff.” A dismissive wave of his hand. “To try to treat our sick without addressing the horrid eating habits that caused the illness in the first place would be akin to trying to clean a house by simply emptying the slop jars. We must treat not only the results of illness, but the underlying causes that bring on the original complaints.”
Mother blinked rapidly, the lean of her body toward the doctor affirming her absolute attention. Dr. Kellogg went on: “I have been trying my new foods on Mr. Post. I have invented a new spread made of puréed nuts, which I have taken to calling peanut butter. Another new thing I’ve invented is a concoction made of oats, wheat, and corn, which some of my patients here call cereal.” He shrugged, an expression of indulgence. “Mr. Post came to me as someone who has spent a lifetime indulging in animal flesh, sugar, caffeine—poisons, all. No wonder he was sick.” Dr. Kellogg braided his hands in a tight, controlled gesture. “No more. I’ve eliminated all liquor and coffee, and prescribed my healthful drink I make from ground bran and molasses. I’ve ordered him to wear looser clothes. To adopt salubrious sleeping habits. I’ve prescribed daily sessions in the pure outdoor air.”
“Yes,” Mother said, her voice faint.
“I’ve done everything I know to do. And yet, with Mr. Post…” Dr. Kellogg sighed, pressing his mustached lips together in a momentary frown. I felt my back go straighter where I sat. Finally the doctor spoke again, but his words were not welcome: “Nothing seems to be working.”
I felt the breath leave Mother’s chest in a slow, weary exhale. I looked down at my hands in my lap. I knew it to be true, had known it before the renowned Dr. Kellogg had declared his findings: Papa was getting weaker by the day. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a conversation of any meaningful length. Any attempts by him to speak now were inevitably accompanied by a shuddering wince and quickly abandoned. I missed Papa’s words, his smile. His laughter. I missed all of him so badly it made my throat tighten with a dry ache.
“Since Mr. Post’s arrival, this affliction of his has appeared to be both bodily and yet, somehow, of an emotional nature as well…” The doctor went on, and my young mind wandered as I watched the man gesture with his long-fingered hands; I noted how his skin gleamed, so papery and colorless that a fine webbing of purple veins ran visibly around the base of his palms and along his wrists. I heard snippets of the words he and Mother spoke, phrases like “attenuating further loss” and “options to ease the suffering.” More than any of their words, I could understand the meaning in how Mother’s entire frame seemed to sag ever further as the conversation continued.