Eventually, the words that seemed to herald the conclusion of our meeting came from the doctor: “I understand that your funds are limited, Mrs. Post. And with the child to provide for, I would regret to leave you with no resources to address…well, what comes next.”
Mother swallowed, sitting silently for a moment before she answered in a low, toneless voice: “I understand, Doctor. And I appreciate the thought you put toward our future.”
Dr. Kellogg nodded once, folding his hands together on top of his dark, shiny desk. “When the time comes, we shall do what we can to help you transition out of treatment and into the next phase, Mrs. Post.” A pulling back of his shoulders and a thrust of his goateed chin and, with that, we knew that our time with the busy doctor was concluded. An attendant appeared unbidden at the door, quietly entering the room and standing sentry-like at the threshold.
Mother clutched to my hand as we left the doctor’s study. As an attendant pushed Papa ahead of us and down the hallway, Mother paused a moment, and I saw her chest rise with an abrupt intake of breath. And then, breaking down right there in that busy, clean hallway, Mother gasped out the words: “There’s nothing more he can do, Marjorie. Nothing more any of us can do. We’ve tried everything.”
I’d never seen Mother cry, and the result now was mute stillness on my part. If Mother was without an idea, if a man such as Dr. Kellogg stood powerless before Papa’s illness, then what could I, a scared young girl, possibly do? Before I could offer some words of comfort, Mother pulled herself back to upright, dabbing her nose with the handkerchief from her pocket. Staring down the hallway, where Papa’s frame was being wheeled away from us and toward the bright, airy lobby, Mother sighed, saying: “Now we just pray. It’s in God’s hands.”
Chapter 3
Battle Creek, Michigan
Spring 1892
We were sitting down to supper a few weeks later when Papa returned from a long day, his face as gray as the low clouds outside that threatened more spring rain. But our hostess’s tone was bright, and she nodded as the San attendant wheeled him in. “You are just in time, Mr. Post. Come on in and join us at the table.” Mrs. Gregory was not one for luxury—it didn’t seem that anyone in Battle Creek was—but true to her word, she always kept her home clean and warm, and her table was always heaped with tasty food. That evening’s meal appeared to be a particularly appetizing beef stew.
The bowl at Papa’s seat was always returned to the cupboard unused, and yet, meal after meal, our hostess continued to set the place for him. “Evening.” Papa limped to the table and dropped himself into the empty chair, staring longingly at the aromatic dishes that Mrs. Gregory had just begun to serve to Mother, her own children, and me.
“You’re welcome to partake, Mr. Post,” Mrs. Gregory said, as she glanced from Papa back down to the beef stew. “Your pay covers room and board, and I always make plenty, so why don’t you just go ahead and eat your supper?”
“No, thank you,” Papa said, shaking his head slowly. With great effort, he added: “I mean no offense, but Dr. Kellogg would not approve. He gave us our evening meal.”
“And what was that?” Mrs. Gregory inquired, lifting an eyebrow as she ladled a scoop of thick juices and soft carrots onto a slice of fillet and then took her own seat.
“Oh, this evening it was a lukewarm bran drink, along with creamed beets and celery, and a perfectly tasteless broth of peas and puréed nuts.” Papa managed a weak grin as Mrs. Gregory spread her napkin over her lap with a sigh.
I did not know what Mother thought of these treatments and meals up at the San, but Mrs. Gregory made her disapproval plain enough. “No wonder you’re wasting away.” Our hostess frowned, shaking her head as she lifted her spoon. “A body in need of healing is a body in need of good, wholesome food.”
When neither Papa nor Mother answered, Mrs. Gregory added: “I don’t doubt that the good Dr. Kellogg means well, but I can’t abide the way he starves you all and rants against the food that the good Lord put on this earth for us. The food at my table is good, clean food. And I know a thing about healing myself.”
The table fell silent at that, and I turned my attention to the bowl of beef stew before me. Healing. Mrs. Gregory had told Mother and me that she practiced something she called Christian Science, and in truth, I had noticed that she had her own steady following in the health-conscious town of Battle Creek. Sick individuals often came unannounced to her front door, appearing at random times of the day asking for guidance and prayer. She had a gift, a reputation for offering at-home cures, I heard them say. I saw enough to know that, though not a boastful woman, Mrs. Gregory did not do anything to deny these claims. She, like nearly everyone in the town, was fixated on the idea of health and how best to find and keep it.