"A few minutes," said Chris. He was almost a doctor himself, he'd studied so much while we were locked away upstairs. "Carrie threw up on the bus three times, then began to tremble and feel clammy. There was a lady on the bus named Henrietta Beech, and she brought us here to you."
The doctor nodded, then explained that Mrs. Beech was his housekeeper-cook. He then led us to the door for patients only, and into a section of the house with two small examination rooms and an office, all while apologizing for not having his usual nurse available. "Take off all
Carrie's clothes but her underpants," he ordered me. While I set about doing this, Chris dashed back to the sidewalk to fetch our suitcases.
Full of a thousand anxieties, Chris and I backed up against a wall and watched as the doctor checked Carrie's blood pressure, her pulse, her temperature and listened to her heart, front and back. By this time Carrie had come around so he could request her to cough. All I could do was wonder why everything bad had happened to us. Why was fate so persistently against us? Were we as evil the grandmother had said? Did Carrie have to die too?
"Carrie," said Dr. Sheffield pleasantly after I had dressed her again, "we're going to leave you in this room for a while so you can rest.. ' He covered her with a thin blanket. "Now don't be afraid. We'll be right down the hall in my office. I know that table isn't too soft, but do try and sleep while I talk to your brother and sister."
She gazed at him with wide, dull eyes, not really caring if the table was hard or soft.
A few minutes later Dr. Sheffield was seated behind his big impressive desk with his elbows on the blotter pad, and that's when he began to speak earnestly and with some concern. "The two of you look embarrassed and ill-at-ease. Don't be afraid you're depriving me of Sunday fun and games, for I don't do much of that. I'm a widower, and Sunday for me is no different than any other day. . . ."
Ah, yes. He could say that, but he looked tired, as if he worked too many long hours. I perched uneasily on the soft brown leather sofa, close by Chris. The sunlight filtering through the windows fell directly on our faces while the doctor was in the shadows. My clothes felt damp and miserable, and suddenly I remembered why. Quickly I stood to unzip and remove my filthy outer skirt. I felt quite pleased to see the doctor start in surprise. Since he'd left the room when I undressed Carrie, he didn't realize that I had two dresses on underneath. When I sat again next to Chris, I wore only one dress of blue, princess styled, and it was flattering and unsoiled.
"Do you always wear more than one outfit on Sundays?" he asked.
"Only on the Sundays I run away," I said. "And we have only two suitcases and need to save room for the valuables we can hock later on when we have to." Chris nudged me sharply, mutely signaling I was revealing too much. But I knew about doctors, from him mostly. That doctor behind the desk could be trusted--it was in his eyes. We could tell him anything, everything.
"Sooo," he drawled, "you three are running away. And just what are you running from? Parents who offended you by denying you some privileges?"
Oh, if he only knew! "It's a long story, Doctor," said Chris, "and right now all we want to hear about is Carrie."
"Yes," he agreed, "you're right. So we'll talk about Carrie." All professional now, he continued, "I don't know who you are, or where you're from, or why you feel you have to run. But that little girl is very, very ill. If this weren't Sunday, I'd admit her to a hospital today for further tests I can't make here. I suggest you contact your parents immediately."
Just the words to make me panic!
"We're orphans," said Chris. "But don't worry about not being paid. We can pay our own way."
"It's good you have money," said the doctor. "You're going to need it." He swept long, observant looks over both of us, sizing us up. "Two weeks in a hospital should be sufficient to discover the factor in your sister's illness I can't quite put my finger on." And while we gasped, stunned that Carrie was that sick, he made an approximate guess as to the amount of money it would cost. Again we were stunned. Dear God! Our stolen cache of money wouldn't even pay for one week, much less two.
My eyes clashed with the appalled look in Chris's blue eyes. What would we do now? We couldn't pay that much.
The doctor easily read our situation. "Are you still orphans?" he asked softly.
"Yes, we're still orphans," stated Chris defiantly, then glanced hard at me to let me know I was to keep my trap shut. "Once you're an orphan you stay that way. Now, tell us what you suspect is wrong with our sister, and what you can do to make her well again."
"Hold up there young man. First you have to answer a few questions." His was a soft voice, but firm enough to let us know he was in command here. "First, what is your last name?"
"I am Christopher Dollanganger, and this is my sister, Catherine Leigh Dollanganger, and Carrie is eight years old, whether or not you believe it!"
"Why shouldn't I believe it?" the doctor asked mildly, when just a few minutes ago in the cubelike examination room, he'd shown shock to hear her age.
"We realize Carrie is very small for her age," said Chris defensively.
"Indeed she is small." He flicked his eyes to me when he said this, then to my brother, and leaned forward on his crossed arms in a friendly, confidential manner that made me tense in preparation. "Now look. Let's stop being suspicious of one another. I'm a doctor, and anything you confide to me will remain in my confidence.
"If you really want to help your sister, you can't sit there and make up lies. You have to give me the truth, or else you're wasting my time and risking Carrie's life."
We both sat silent, holding hands, our shoulders pressed one against one other. I felt Chris shudder, so I shuddered too. We were so scared, so damned scared to speak the full truth--for who would believe? We'd trusted those who were supposedly honorable before so how could we trust again? And yet, that man behind the desk. . . he looked so familiar, like I'd seen him before. "All right," he said, "if it's that difficult, let me ask more questions. Tell me what all three of you ate last."
Chris sighed, relieved. "Our last meal was breakfast very early this morning. We all ate the same thing, hot dogs with everything, french fries dipped in catsup, and then chocolate milkshakes. Carrie ate only a little of her meal. She's very picky about food under the best of circumstances. I'd say she's never really had a healthy appetite."
Frowning, the doctor noted this down. "And all three of you ate exactly the very same things for breakfast? And only Carrie was nauseated?"
"Right. Only Carrie."
"Is Carrie often nauseated?"