The Taint by Patricia Wallace Page B

have the tea. You look very pale . . . it will do you good.” He paused. “Did you ever finish hemming the choir robes?”
    “Oh, I’d forgotten . . .”
    He smiled his kind smile. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have them done by tomorrow. You always take care of things so well.” He kissed her again. “Maybe you’ll learn to take care of yourself.” The door closed behind him.
     
     
     
     

TWENTY-FIVE
     
    Rachel placed the stethoscope on Peter Thomas’ chest, listening to his heart. No murmurs. Strong, steady beats. She shifted it, listening to the lungs. Good exchange of air, no rales or signs of congestion.
    He was sleeping and she didn’t want to disturb him so she carefully rebuttoned his pajama top, pulled up the covers and left him alone.
    “His mother’s gone home,” Emma told her. “Her youngest has come down with the flu.”
    “Maybe that’s what he has.” She tapped her pen on the chart.
    “Maybe. He sure got sick in a hurry, though.”
    “Kids do. And they can get better in a hurry, too.” She looked at the closed door to the boy’s room. “I think he’s through the worst of it.”
    Emma nodded. “His temp is down to ninety-nine six.
    “Good.” She picked up Wendall Tyler’s chart. “I’m going down to my office—call me if you need me.” She found the textbook on hypnosis among the medical books and opened it, smiling. It hardly seemed possible that she had finally finished with school, after so many years of concentrated effort. Her name and student ID number were printed on the title page and she could almost remember doing it. Every semester, the long lines in the bookstore, and then the ritual of labeling her books. The first hectic days of classes, waiting to find out if the instructors were of this world.
    She sat behind the desk, flipping the pages of the book. Underlined sentences, notes in the margins. Assigned reading, and she was always behind. But she’d wanted to finished college in three years, to get into medical school as quickly as possible. The best years of your life, her counselors told her. What a depressing thought.
    All she wanted was to get out, get her MD and come back to Jon, who was managing to control himself.
    Hypnotism. She returned her attention to the book.
    Nathan was at the door, a paper bag in his hand. “I brought you a sandwich.” He put it on the desk in front of her and looked to see what she was reading. “Any good?”
    “I’m refreshing my memory on theory.”
    “And practice?”
    “It’ll come.” She closed the book and took the bag, opening it and looking in. “What is it?”
    “Bacon and avocado.”
    “Avocado? All the way up here?”
    “Do I detect a note of city snobbery?”
    “Not at all. I’m thrilled.” She opened the sandwich. “Real avocado.”
    “Eat your lunch; we’ve got work to do.”
     
    Nathan pulled the culture dishes out of the incubator, handing her one. “Look at it.”
    The bottom of the plate was covered by whitish organisms.
    “What is it?”
    “Haven’t identified it yet. Look.” He handed her another dish, sectioned off for sensitivities, each section with a tiny white disc. The organisms covered the discs. Three other dishes, similarly prepared, identical results. “It’s not responsive to any of the common broad-spectrum antibiotics. In fact, it rather likes Erythromycin and Tetracycline.”
    “Whose is this?” Her eyes widened. “Not the Thomas boy . . .”
    He shook his head. “No, it’s Wendall Tyler’s.”
    “Tyler?” She looked at the plate. “But he has no symptoms of infection.”
    “And, his blood count and chemistry are normal.”
    “Do you think this blood sample was contaminated?”
    “I’m sure it wasn’t.” He put the dishes back into the incubator. “I have some other tests to run, some specialized chemical levels. Long shots.” He shrugged.
    “It’s very curious,” Rachel remarked.
    “But an indication that there might be something physically wrong