patients?
No. I am taking my wife with me to London, to consult a specialist. My mother has an excellent nurse who relieves me during the night; but now that I must be gone, I need someone to care for her by day.
Ah. And what is your wifes difficulty?
Shock, said I. At the horror of being bitten, and finding that the attacker had stolen her firstborn son.
And our patient? she asked gently, turning her kind gaze once again upon Mama.
Tumours of the breast and now, I think, the brain and elsewhere. She is not altogether lucid; usually she sleeps because of the morphia. There is pain.
She clicked her tongue softly. And what is her name, sir, if I might ask?
Van Helsing, the same as mine, I almost replied. But her demeanour was so much that of a trusted family friend that I answered, Mary.
Mary. She savoured the word with loving approval. The Mother of God. Such a good name And she went over to sit in the rocking-chair beside the bed. And I am Helga, she said, lifting Mamas hand from beneath the sheets and pressing it gently between her own, as if she were introducing herself and exchanging information. I doubt the woman was aware of what she was doing, but it was clear to me that she was a natural psychic.
After a time, she confirmed this by looking over her shoulder at me and saying: You are a good man, sir, and very brave. I also know in my heart that your mother is a good woman. I shall be happy to give her excellent care.
And if God wills that she should die while you are gone, do not think that she died alone or with a stranger, for I shall care and pray for her as if she were my own sister.
I turned away, clumsily pretending to gaze out the window at that moment, for her compassion quite touched me. And when I am moved, suppressed grief wells within me and shatters my defenses like floodwaters breaking a dam; I could not prevent tears from spilling, but I moved quickly to wipe them away and recover myself.
Weep, sir, she said behind me, and I heard the soft sound of her patting Mamas handas if Mama were fully conscious and aware of my tears, and Frau Koehler wished to comfort her. You have a right to.
I feigned a cough so that I could withdraw my kerchief and wipe nose and eyes, then turned apologetically towards the two women and nodded at Mama, whose eyelids had begun to flicker. Not so much right as she. She is the one who is suffering, not I.
Untrue, sir. Because you love her, all her suffering has become yours. And because you are more able to keenly observe it, you are even more aware of its extent than she. Is it not more painful to see someone you love suffer than to endure that suffering yourself?
I wanted to protest, for a part of me was incensed to think that I suffered more than Mama. Yet I could not deny that because I was conscious, lucid, and still graced with adequate eyesight, I could look upon my mothers face and see the wasting there, see the lines traced by years of grief, see the sunken cheeks and slightly jaundiced skin. See, also, the raw bleeding bedsores devour her flesh while she screamed in anguish in a futile effort to void. Her whole life has been pain: the loss of two husbands, a son, a grandson, terror of a fate truly worse than death. All this she has borne cheerfully, courageouslyand for what purpose? To die in agony after an unhappy existence? To lose all her dignity and beauty
I must not continue, or I shall break down weeping again. Enough, enough!
It took me some time to compose myself sufficiently to answer Frau Koehler: It is difficult, indeed. But I am some judge of character myself, and I perceive that you will give my mother such wonderful and compassionate care that I need have no worry. And I shook off all grief and tried to change my tone to that of the brisk businessman. Is it true that you can start this morning? For my trip cannot wait; the sooner I and my wife leave, the better. I should like to have you stay now, if you can, while I pack and make