The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

I agree to go, my heart already racing, though Samantha assures me Dr. Barnett is nice and promises to stay with me the whole time. Hawkins calls us a cab, but instead of a taxi, a horse-drawn carriage clops up, its wheels rattling over the cobblestones, making me feel very far from home. Samantha links her arm through mine to lead me to it, and Hawkins helps me up before she and Grandmary climb in behind me.

Bouncing down the street, the seat jostling beneath us, we pass other carriages and one odd, roofless single-seat car with narrow wheels, straight out of an antique parade back home. A man cranks its front handle until it clanks and rumbles to life, somewhere between a lawn mower and a motorcycle, the whole thing shaking.

Samantha asks if the noise bothers me, then proudly explains that her Uncle Gard owns an automobile, and she can’t wait to ride in it. Grandmary, less thrilled, calls the modern machines a nuisance and covers her ears. I stifle a giggle, wondering what she’d think of the cars in my time, quieter, sure, but there are a lot more of them.

The cab stops at a small cream-colored house, and I assume we’re picking someone up until the driver helps me down: this is the doctor’s office. Grandmary walks in without knocking, as if it’s her own home. Two people wait inside on a row of wooden chairs, a man with a bandaged foot and crutches propped beside him, and a small girl with red blisters covering her face.

I settle on a leather couch beside Samantha, trying not to stare as the girl scratches her blistered palms. Samantha leans in: chicken pox. She asks the girl if it itches, and reassures her it’ll get better soon.

Grandmary tells me that she and Samantha have already had chicken pox, then asks if I have. I shake my head, doubtful I’d forget something like that, and ask if it’s contagious. Quite, she says. I steal another glance at the girl, who coughs without covering her mouth, and sink lower in my seat, trying to put a little more space between us. Samantha squeezes my hand and promises I’ll be fine.

When the office door swings open, I jump. A woman in a long white apron leads out a boy and his mother, the boy even more blistered, some spots on his swollen eyelids. Menthol salve for the itching, she advises, and keep him away from other children. He passes far too close on his way out, and the little girl trails after, glancing back at me one last time.

The woman in the apron asks Grandmary what she needs. Grandmary, standing, asks if she’s Dr. Barnett’s nurse. No, she’s Dr. Annabeth Ross, finishing her final month of training before starting her own practice. Grandmary’s eyes widen. We’re here to see Dr. Barnett. Dr. Ross smiles: he’s here, too.

Following her in, Samantha elbows me, thrilled: a woman doctor, here in Mount Bedford! I don’t see why it’s so surprising, my own doctor back home is a woman, but Grandmary’s disapproving look tells me I won’t be examined by her.

The exam room looks like Dad’s cluttered office, certificates in rows, books and encyclopedias lining the shelves. The male doctor sits at a wooden desk in a silk vest and dress pants, scribbling notes, a familiar stethoscope around his neck. Samantha stands beside me as I climb onto the table, the leather cool against my legs, and a tall lamp flicks on, blinding. I look away toward a cabinet of glass vials and sharp instruments and squeeze my eyes shut tight until Samantha taps my hand.

Grandmary explains I fell while bicycle riding. Dr. Barnett nods slowly, bicycles can be dangerous things, and asks Dr. Ross to adjust the lamp. Samantha watches her every move with fascination. He has me look left and right as the lamp shines into and away from my eyes.

Next, Dr. Barnett taps my reflexes below the knees with a metal hammer, my leg kicking out on its own, then tests my strength as I hold my arms out and he pushes down. Finally, no signs of a concussion, though I’ll need watching for a few hours and ice for the swelling. He sends aspirin along, too, which Grandmary accepts only after a long moment’s hesitation.

Leaving, I reach back to pull the door shut and hesitate, my fingers hovering just above the metal knob. Did the chicken pox children touch this same doorknob? I wipe my sweaty palms on my capris.