Doc Mullins came into the kitchen, dressed now, with a canister of powdered formula. Behind him trailed Jack, bearing the towels he was asked to fetch.
Mel gently rubbed the soap over the baby, rinsing off the muck of birth, the warmth of the water hopefully bringing the baby’s temperature up. “This umbilicus is going to need some attention,” she said. “Any idea who gave birth?”
“None whatsoever,” Doc said, pouring bottled water into a measuring bowl.
“Who’s pregnant? That would be a logical place to start.”
“The pregnant women in Virgin River who have been coming here for prenatal visits wouldn’t give birth alone. Maybe someone came from another town. Maybe I’ve got a patient out there who gave birth without the benefit of medical assistance, and that could be the second crisis of the day. As I’m sure you know,” he added, somewhat smugly.
“As I’m sure I do,” she returned, with equal smugness. “So, what’s your plan?”
“I imagine I will diaper and feed and become irritable.”
“I think you mean more irritable.”
“I don’t see many options,” he said.
“Aren’t there any women in town who could help out?”
“Perhaps on a limited basis.” He filled a bottle and popped it in the microwave. “I’ll manage, don’t you worry.” Then he added, somewhat absently, “Might not hear her in the night, but she’ll live through it.”
“You have to find a home for this baby,” she said.
“You came here looking for work. Why don’t you offer to help?”
She took a deep breath and, lifting the baby from the sink, laid her in the towel being held by Jack. She cocked her head in appreciation as Jack took the infant confidently, wrapping her snugly and cuddling her close. “You’re pretty good at that,” she said.
“The nieces,” he said, jiggling the baby against his broad chest. “I’ve held a baby or two. You going to stay on a bit?” he asked.
“Well, there are problems with that idea. I have nowhere to stay. That cabin is not only unacceptable for me, it’s more unacceptable for this infant. The porch collapsed, remember? And there are no steps to the back door. The only way in is to literally crawl.”
“There’s a room upstairs,” Doc said. “If you stay and help out, you’ll be paid.” Then he looked at her over the rims of his reading glasses and sternly added, “Don’t get attached to her. Her mother will turn up and want her back.”
Jack went back to the bar and placed a call from the kitchen. A groggy, thick voice answered. “Hello?”
“Cheryl? You up?”
“Jack,” the woman said. “That you?”
“It’s me. I need a favor. Right away.”
“What is it, Jack?”
“Weren’t you asked to clean that McCrea cabin for the nurse coming to town?”
“Uh…Yeah. Didn’t get to it though. I had…I think it was the flu.”
It was the Smirnoff flu, he thought. Or even more likely, the Everclear flu—that really evil 190-proof pure grain alcohol. “Can you do it today? I’m going out there to repair the porch and I need that place cleaned. I mean, really cleaned. She’s here and is staying with Doc for now—but that place has to be whipped into shape. So?”
“You’re going to be there?”
“Most of the day. I can call someone else. I thought I’d give you a crack at it first, but you have to be sober.”
“I’m sober,” she insisted. “Totally.”
He doubted it. He expected she would have a flask with her as she cleaned. But the risk he was taking, and it was not a pleasant risk, was that she would do it for him, and do it very well if it was for him. Cheryl had had a crush on him since he hit town and found excuses to be around him. He tried very hard never to give her any encouragement. But despite her struggle with alcohol, she was a strong woman and good at cleaning when she put her mind to it.
“The door’s open. Get started and I’ll be out later.”
He hung up the phone and Preacher said, “Need a hand, man?”
“I do,” he said. “Let’s close up and get the cabin fixed up. She might be persuaded to stay.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what the town needs,” he said.
“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Sure.”
If Mel practiced any other kind of medicine, she might’ve put the baby in the old doctor’s arthritic hands and gotten in her car to leave. But a midwife would never do that—couldn’t turn her back on an abandoned newborn. For that matter, she couldn’t shake a profound concern for the baby’s mother. It was settled within seconds; she couldn’t leave the baby to an old doctor who might not hear her cry in the night. And she had to be close by if the mother sought medical attention because women in childbirth and postpartum were her specialty.
During the rest of the day, Mel had ample opportunity to check out the rest of Doc’s house. The spare room he provided turned out to be more than something for overnight guests—it was furnished with two hospital beds, an IV stand, tray table, bedside bureau and oxygen canister. The only chair in the room happened to be a rocking chair, and Mel was sure that was by design, for the use of a new mother and baby. The baby was provided with a Plexiglas incubator from the downstairs exam room.
The doctor’s house was completely functional as a clinic and hospital. The downstairs living room was a waiting room, the dining room was fronted by a counter for check-in. There was an exam room, treatment room, both small, and the doctor’s office. In the kitchen there was a small table where he no doubt ate his meals when he wasn’t at Jack’s. No ordinary kitchen, this one had an autoclave for sterilizing and a locked medicine chest for narcotic drugs kept on hand. In the refrigerator, a few units of blood and plasma, as well as food. More blood than food.
The upstairs had two bedrooms only—the one with the hospital beds and Doc Mullins’s. Her accommodations were not the most comfortable, though better than the filthy cabin. But the room was cold and stark; hardwood floors, small rug, rough sheets with a plastic mattress protector that crinkled noisily. She already missed her down comforter, four hundred count sheets, soft Egyptian towels and thick, plush carpet. It had occurred to her that she would be leaving behind creature comforts, but she thought it might be good for her, thought she was ready for a big change.
Mel’s friends and sister had tried to talk her out of this, but unfortunately they had failed. She had barely gotten over the traumatic experience of giving away all of Mark’s clothes and personal items. She’d kept his picture, his watch, the cuff links she had given him on his last birthday—platinum—and his wedding ring. When the job in Virgin River came available, she’d sold all the furniture in their house then put it on the market. There was an offer in three days, even at those ridiculous L.A. prices. She’d packed three boxes of little treasures—favorite books, CDs, pictures, bric-abrac. The desktop computer was given away to a friend, but she’d brought the laptop and her digital camera. As far as clothes, she’d filled three suitcases and an overnight and gave the rest away. No more strapless dresses for fancy charity events; no more sexy nighties for those nights that Mark didn’t have to work late.