Page 10 of Six Days in Bombay

I sidled past her to look in the stockroom. No Indira. I didn’t remember her telling me she was taking the day off.

As I was leaving the stockroom, I heard Dr. Mishra cry out, “Morphine!” from Dr. Stoddard’s room. Rebecca, who was in the hallway closest to Stoddard’s room, hurried inside.

“No, no, no!” I whispered, praying it wasn’t the old doctor. I ran in after her to find Dr. Stoddard sitting up in bed, his hair rumpled, looking about to see what was going on. Dr. Mishra was with the other patient, Mr. Hassan, the one whose appendix had been removed.

Rebecca brushed against my shoulder as she rushed out the door. Dr. Mishra looked up as I walked in and said, “It’s his heart, Nurse Falstaff. Keep him steady. Talk to him. Nurse Trivedi has gone to the pharmacy to get morphine. He’s going to be fine. I have to get Dr. Holbrook.” Holbrook was our house surgeon. With that, Dr. Mishra left just as Rebecca, out of breath, brought the enamel pan with the loaded syringe, cotton balls and antiseptic solution.

I grabbed Mr. Hassan’s hand. Already my chest was constricting in time with his and I was finding it hard to breathe, but I willed myself to stay calm. “You’re going to be fine, Mr. Hassan,” I cooed. “Did you hear the doctor just now? Nurse is here with medicine. The doctor is here too.” I didn’t want him to think Dr. Mishra had abandoned him.

Mr. Hassan was a big man. He was clutching his chest with one hand, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, and shaking his head from side to side. Rebecca quickly cleaned the crookof his arm with antiseptic solution. Just as she was about to inject the morphine, Mr. Hassan twisted his body in pain, striking her arm. Rebecca almost lost control of the syringe—it was about to pierce the patient’s lung, which would have been fatal. I flung Rebecca’s arm away from his chest and held Mr. Hassan down with my elbow to keep him from moving and reopening his appendix scar. Rebecca stood with her mouth open, stunned at what might have happened, unable to move.

“Rebecca!” I said.

She shook herself and injected the syringe into the vein on the inside of his elbow. He calmed instantly. Both Rebecca and I were breathing heavily, but he was drifting off to sleep.

I released my hold on the patient and took a deep breath. I straightened my apron, wrinkled from the fracas. Rebecca was cleaning the site of his injection. Her face was mottled pink, red, pink.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” she said, her voice tight.

I was confused. “Do what?”

“Push me like that. I knew what I was doing.”

My mouth fell open. “Rebecca, an injection to his lungs could have killed him,” I whispered.

“I was nowhere close to his lungs.” She grabbed the enamel pan, her knuckles white on the rim. “When I tell Matron, no doubt she’ll take your side in this as she always does. You’d have to murder someone to get on her bad side!” She brushed past the bed so quickly I felt the whoosh of air as she left the room.

I stood still, my heart racing. I’d never had difficulty at Wadia with anyone but Rebecca. I liked our staff. As undermanned as we were, we worked efficiently together, largely because Matron managed us like a military battalion.

“Well,Ijolly well like you.” I turned to see Dr. Stoddard smiling cheerfully at me from his bed. I’d forgotten he was there. “You saved me from the dreaded snores tonight. Think he’ll sleep all the way to morning?”

I nodded, still reeling from Rebecca’s words. I heard voices in the hallway, which spurred me to action. I pulled Mr. Hassan’s chart from the foot of his bed and wrote down what Rebecca and I had administered, how much and who had requested it.

Dr. Mishra walked in with Dr. Holbrook. The surgeon was saying, “Well, you should have asked me first.”

Dr. Mishra blinked. “He was having a heart attack. We had to act quickly. And I did come get you as soon as I saw what was happening.”

The other doctor said with feigned patience, “Where you come from, they might have called it a heart attack. In En­glish medicine, it could have been an asthma attack or gas pain or an ulcer.”

Dr. Mishra stood, incredulous. “I come from the finest medical school in England, Dr. Holbrook. The patient presented the symptoms of a heart attack.”

Dr. Holbrook wasn’t listening. He examined the patient with his stethoscope, pulled open his eyelids, inspected the site of the surgery for his appendix. “He’s fine now, it seems.”

“Because we acted in time, sir.”

“Yes, well, Mishra. Could have been much worse for you. Lucky break.” He clapped his hand on Dr. Mishra’s shoulder and left the room. The young doctor’s face was dark with anger.

I felt Dr. Mishra’s frustration. Dr. Holbrook, with his patrician air, left no room for anyone else to make their case. Matron had told the nursing staff that Holbrook had been in India for thirty years and was used to doing things his own way, even if it wasn’t the right way.

The young doctor turned to me, his gaze alighting on my face, my arm and the patient before saying, “Thank you, Nurse Falstaff.” I handed him the chart and he signed his name. Then he left.

Dr. Stoddard waved me over and whispered, “Dear girl, thatsnorer owes you and your handsome doctor his life, much to my chagrin.” He winked merrily.

The heat rising up my neck meant my face would be turning pink soon. “He’s notmyhandsome doctor. He’sahandsome doctor. No, I didn’t mean… He’s notnothandsome. Oh, just—” I was flustered in a way that wasn’t like me. I rubbed my palms down my apron.

“I see I’m going to have to teach you how to bluff when we start playing gin rummy.” He grinned, his crooked teeth on full display.

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