Cherry Ames Boxed Set 1-4 Page 7

CHAPTER VI

  The Problem of Vivian Warren

  MISS MAC WAS SHOWING THE CLASS HOW TO APPLY HOT wet dressings. They had come a long way in the past month and a half from temperature taking, alcohol sponges and bed baths all the way to giving hypodermics and making solutions, not only in Nursing Arts class but on the wards as well. Cherry thought proudly, as she leafed through her notebook, that she finally had mastered bedmaking and poultices after all.

  Miss McIntyre’s lively impatient voice brought Cherry’s attention back to today’s lesson.

  “—hot means hot, and wet means soaking wet.” Miss McIntyre’s deft manicured hands applied solution from a rubber syringe onto Sally Chase’s imaginary infected wound and covered it with a rubber sheet.

  Behind Cherry, Mai Lee’s low voice repeated, “Hot … wet … rubber. …” The class was used to Mai Lee’s conscientious echo by now. Over in another corner of the room, Cherry saw plump Bertha Larsen waving her hands in the air, in an abstracted imitation of Miss McIntyre’s motions. Behind her sat blonde little Marie Swift, not pampered-looking any longer, scribbling like mad in her notebook. Apart from the rest, with her look of cold contempt, sat Vivian Warren. Cherry wondered fleetingly where Vivian had acquired such an unpleasant disposition and why. She burrowed further into her own chair, warmly conscious of Ann and Gwen on either side of her.

  Miss McIntyre stopped for breath, then went on crisply, “Raise the wounded part on a pillow—put hot water bottles outside the rubber—” she did all these quickly as she spoke, “and cover the whole thing, gently please, with a blanket or a piece of flannel. Any questions?”

  The only sound was the scratching of pencils on paper as the class raced to keep up, and Mai Lee murmuring, “Pillow, hot water bottles, gently please. …” The rubber demonstration doll was the only one in the room who was not hard at work. There were no questions.

  “Well, aren’t there any questions?” Miss McIntyre demanded. She straightened her cap on her dashing bob. “Do you all know everything there is to know about this?”

  Vivian Warren raised her hand confidently. “Is it correct that this surgical dressing is not necessarily a post-operative technique?”

  “Whew!” Gwen whispered into Cherry’s ear. “Where did Warren learn all those professional words?”

  Ann whispered shrewdly in Cherry’s other ear, “She probably memorized that out of the text to impress teacher.”

  And Miss McIntyre was impressed. “Correct. The wound might be an infected finger, for instance. And very good, Miss Warren.”

  Vivian settled back in her chair with a satisfied smile. Cherry caught herself wondering whether Vivian could actually do the hot wet dressing. She had made a reputation for herself in Miss McIntyre’s class—and through that, in the Training School Office itself—as the outstanding probationer, chiefly by use of her glib tongue. Cherry was considered second best student in her class. But what Vivian’s practice on the ward was, nobody knew. Vivian Warren had been quick—a little too quick—to make a personal friend of her supervising head nurse. And Bertha Larsen, who was on ward duty with her, was too loyal to gossip or complain about anyone. Cherry choked over such tactics and so did the rest of the class.

  It was especially annoying now, for it was late October, with little more than a month to go until caps. The probationers, constantly being checked these three trial months on performance and personal conduct by T.S.O., were in a state of tension as the time for caps—or expulsion—grew shorter and shorter. Three girls already had dropped out, even before the probationary period was completed. No one knew whether they had lost courage, or whether T.S.O. had asked them to leave. Apparently Vivian Warren was determined to win her cap, no matter what it cost anyone else. But this was no moment to speculate about Vivian’s great success by doubtful means, for Miss McIntyre was up and at them with another topic: patient psychology. Although there was a separate class in psychology, the human angle kept cropping up even in classes in technique.

  It was Cherry’s favorite topic, and visions of Mrs. Brownlee on Women’s Medical floated before her as Miss McIntyre, perched jauntily on her desk, talked to them about patient psychology. This time Cherry had a question.

  “What do you do with a patient who, though she is nearly well now, is still as cranky and unreasonable as a three-year-old child?”

  Before the instructor could answer, Vivian Warren said cuttingly, “A patient reflects his nurse’s attitude. A nurse must learn to be calm and unruffled at all : times.” That, too, was almost word for word out of an earlier lesson.

  Cherry was furious. “I am calm and unruffled!” she said in excitement and dropped her notebook with a bang.

  Vivian Warren raised a skeptical eyebrow. The class looked amused. Cherry could feel her cheeks flushing.

  Miss McIntyre said sharply, “Please let us have no quarreling in class.”

  To Cherry’s surprise, Josie Franklin spoke up in her defense. “This patient is really unusually difficult.”

  But Josie’s apologetic tone only made matters worse. “Doesn’t Miss Ames know that that’s where the nurse’s skill comes in?” asked Vivian Warren innocently.

  Miss McIntyre said even more sharply than before, “That will do, Miss Warren!”

  Cherry had a dozen hot-tempered answers on the tip of her tongue and Gwen’s red head was stuck out like a danger signal. But Miss McIntyre was going on with the lecture.

  Cherry left the classroom at the end of the period, sputtering with indignation. Vivian Warren was doing her best to spread the impression that Cherry could not handle her patients. And it was not true!

  Gwen whispered furiously, “I’m just sorry that murder isn’t legal!”

  Ann was angry, too, in her quiet controlled way. “Cherry’s too good a student. Vivian’s afraid.”

  “She’s a mean deceitful perfectly nasty person,” Josie said all in one breath. She had come up behind them in the hall, and they all walked along together to laboratory practice.

  Cherry said nothing. She was thinking of what Ann had said. The clue repeated itself over and over, “Vivian’s afraid, Vivian’s afraid … afraid … afraid …” Just when they entered the laboratory, a wisp of an idea formed in her mind. She said nothing to the girls but merely went to her stool at the long sink and slipped on her white coat.

  The idea swelled and grew, as Cherry bent and applied one dark eye to the bacteria slide under her microscope. She loved the big gray steel-and-stone laboratory, with its complete set of equipment for each student, and she loved uncovering the mysteries of living things under the delicate and powerful microscope. The wet solution on her hands, the sound of running water, the deep voice of the instructor in the next aisle, even the strong smell of formaldehyde, were familiar and pleasant. How Dr. Joe would enjoy working with all these fine instruments—and what good use he could put them to! “I must write him again about his new drug,” Cherry reminded herself. But even Dr. Joe was blotted out by Ann’s phrase, “Vivian’s afraid … afraid …” What was she afraid of? Cherry had some ideas of her own about that.

  She polled Ann and Gwen on their way to nutrition class.

  “La Warren is afraid of failing,” was Gwen’s guess. “And if she can’t succeed by fair means, then she’ll succeed by foul.”

  “But we’re all worried about probation,” Ann pointed out. “Or are you two relatives of Richard the Lion-Hearted? No, Miss Jones, I’d say that Warren knows she isn’t any too competent and is trying hard to cover up.”

  “Yes, you’re both right, but,” Cherry said slowly, “there’s something else besides. She’s so gosh-awful desperate about not failing——”

  “A desperate character?” Gwen giggled. They saw Vivian walking ahead of them. She was alone, as always. Certainly her poised manner did not suggest desperation.

  “Yes, she is taking this awfully hard,” Cherry insisted. “We all have our hearts set on being nurses. But she acts as if failure would be a death sentence. She�
��s willing to do anything to win her cap, as if—as if, should she get tossed out of here, she wouldn’t dare go back to where she came from.”

  The three girls looked at one another. “Where did she come from?” Ann asked. They did not know. Vivian Warren had not told anyone anything about herself.

  The idea in back of Cherry’s bright black eyes was becoming clearer now. She entered the dietetic laboratory feeling a bit like a detective, but still she said nothing.

  Dietetics was always fun. Last time the class had had a lecture on nutrition, with emphasis on bland diets, so today each girl was at her own stove making those vitamins taste good. Cherry enjoyed having a stove, sink, and shining utensils all to herself. “It’s like playing house,” she thought, as she stirred the cream soup and took a quick worried look at the junket. Cherry noticed, with a twinkle, that Bertha was taking more tastes of her cooking than strictly necessary. Well, this class did make one hungry. “Here’s hoping my cooking will smell as tantalizing to a sick person as it does to me,” Cherry thought, her mouth watering. Even Vivian Warren thawed out in dietetics lab, her rather hard face carefully studying the contents of the pan which quiet little Mai Lee obligingly held out to her. “Afraid … afraid …” went the ticking in Cherry’s head.

  The nutrition instructor, Mrs. Gaynor, a plump motherly woman, wandered from one stove to another, sniffing, tasting, poking spoons into pots and explaining as she went. “Don’t forget, girls,” she called out, “it has to look nice, too. Many patients never want to hear of food again, so you have to tempt them with eye appeal. Small portions, girls, they can always have seconds …” Over Cherry’s shoulder, Mrs. Gaynor said, “Smooth and creamy, Miss Ames, that’s it. You have the knack.” Cherry was pleased. She glanced up just in time to see Vivian Warren frown. But the idea was almost whole now and Cherry felt confident. Mrs. Gaynor’s voice went on at the next stove, “No, my dear. Stir, stir! How would you like LUMPS?”

  Lumps or no lumps, the class moved on to anatomy lesson. This was a stiff course. Even Dr. Jim Clayton had admitted to Cherry, one day on the ward, that he would need to brush up on anatomy and physiology before he could keep up with her studies. Cherry was not too happy amid the bones and the diagrams of nerves and arteries. But all this certainly did explain what treatments were required for her patients on Women’s Medical with such illnesses as cardiac disorder, rheumatic fever, and ulcers. Not even Vivian Warren dared speak up here, and it was a chastened class that streamed downstairs to the nurses’ pleasant green dining room.

  Cherry was suspiciously quiet at lunch. She and Ann and Gwen shared the sunny corner table with Josie, Bertha, blonde little Marie Swift, and Mai Lee.

  Gwen was imitating Mrs. Gaynor’s pouter pigeon bosom and exhorting the others, “Plenty of milk, girls, just plunk it in your junket! How would you like toast like a leather sole? Now, girrrrls——”

  Cherry smiled absent-mindedly at the banter, but she was watching for something. There was a chair vacant at their table. There were vacant chairs, too, with other members of the probationers’class. Vivian Warren came by with a laden tray from the food counter and sat down with a group of more advanced student nurses. Why? They did not seem to know her and Vivian was as alone with her salad as if she were an isolated measles case. Now that she thought of it, Cherry had always seen Vivian alone. But only now had she taken the time to think it over.

  “Look at Cherry nodding to herself!” Ann said. “We’ll take her over to Psychiatric right after lunch.”

  “All right, but I’ll miss you, all of you,” Cherry assured them.

  “Maybe we’ll go crazy and come to see you,” Gwen said with her tongue in her cheek. “Come on, confess.”

  Marie Swift wrinkled up her nose. “I smell a mystery.”

  “Ames has a plan about Warren,” Ann guessed.

  But Cherry appeared absolutely fascinated with her vegetables. By the time they had finished their pudding—and they had a strong suspicion that it was their own junket lurking under the chocolate sauce—Cherry still had not recovered from her deliberate attack of deafness to their questions. The idea was in full bloom now. But first there was ward duty to be completed.

  Toiling up the stairs to the ward, Josie Franklin said, “You’re in a real sweet temper, considering how that Warren behaved in class this morning.”

  “Mmm,” said Cherry, and glanced quickly at Josie. But Josie’s candid face was innocent of subterfuge.

  Cherry paused at Miss Baker’s desk to say “Good afternoon” and report on duty. The pretty head nurse smiled up at her. “If Miss McIntyre has taught you how to make soap solution, you are just the person Ward 4 needs.”

  “Let Ward 4 rejoice,” Cherry said and Miss Baker grinned back at her. Inwardly Cherry was rejoicing that Miss Baker thought her capable enough to do this job. Marjory Baker was a darling, anyway, Cherry thought. She was sorry her month on Women’s Medical was nearly up, for she would have to be transferred to another ward where she would sample another branch of nursing.

  By now Ward 4 was practically home. It was a good feeling to walk down the long row of white beds, smiling hello to the patients, who looked up eagerly from their lunch trays to smile back. Even grumpy Mrs. Brownlee. Even the three new patients who had been admitted last week, and the new young woman who had been brought in yesterday and occupied the little Southerner’s bed. It gave Cherry a good satisfying feeling, and her cheeks were very pink and her black curls bounced. Now she really understood Mrs. Brownlee’s diabetic condition and the Slavic woman’s cardiac case and the case of the girl who had mistakenly swallowed poison. Best of all, Cherry thought, as she trotted toward the kitchen to help serve the lunch trays, was knowing what she, Cherry Ames, could do to help them. Cherry could not help wondering if the star student, Vivian Warren, felt the same or did as well on the ward.

  In the small steamy kitchen, Miss Antonio and Miss Prentice were arranging trays at top speed and calling each other good-humored names. Josie, not altogether sure they were joking, huddled in a corner preparing trays of house diets.

  “Want a hand?” Cherry offered.

  “Come on in,” Miss Prentice said. She had thawed out considerably in the past month. “Always room for one more.”

  Cherry squeezed in and reached for the trays.

  “Have you heard?” Miss Antonio said over the clatter of dishes. “Mrs. Thompson—” that was the granite-faced woman who disapproved of all nurses under forty, “—is being discharged today. I took her final check-up this morning. And you know what that means.”

  Cherry disengaged herself from thoughts of the Vivian Warren campaign.

  Josie asked trustingly, “What does that mean?”

  “It means, my innocent little lamb,” Miss Antonio replied, “that the whole ward will want to go home too. They’re all so nearly well, they are getting restless. Wish we could just spirit Mrs. Thompson out of here in the middle of the night. As it is—” she sighed.

  Later as Cherry collected trays and adjusted pillows, there was a buzz of excitement on the ward. Voices called from bed to bed. No one wanted to settle down for the afternoon nap. The most stubborn one of all, and the only silent woman on the ward, was Mrs. Thompson. She sat grimly propped against her pillow, her two braids of gray hair like guns over her shoulders.

  “I’ll wait for Dr. Clayton,” was all she would say, even to Miss Baker. So the entire ward waited for the young interne.

  Cherry went off to make soap solution and when she returned, Dr. Clayton was at Mrs. Thompson’s bedside. Cherry felt a surge of pleasure at seeing him and thought again what vitality and hope this tall young doctor brought into the ward. Just now, however, there was an argument going on.

  “But, Mrs. Thompson, you are quite well enough to go home,” Dr. Clayton was saying. “See here, your chart shows——”

  “I’m not leaving,” Mrs. Thompson said flatly.

  Miss Baker came to Dr. Clayton’s side. “We need your bed and your nurse
s for other sick people. You know how shorthanded we are, with doctors and nurses going off to the battle fronts. Surely you know what a serious shortage civilian hospitals like ours are up against. There are sick people waiting and we have no nurses to take care of them.”

  Mrs. Thompson compressed her lips so tightly they looked like a ruled line. “I refuse to leave the hospital.”

  Dr. Clayton said wearily, “But why?” The whole ward was listening.

  “I like it here. The doctors and the nurses are all so nice, and the meals are good, and everything’s done for me. Why it’s the first time in my life I ever had a vacation. It’s a real pleasure to be sick in a good hospital. No, sirree, I’m staying right here.”

  Cherry smothered an impulse to laugh. Mrs. Thompson had “hospitalitis”! What could Dr. Clayton or the head nurse say to that? Jim Clayton and Marjory Baker sought each other’s eyes in despair.

  “We’re glad we’ve succeeded in keeping you comfortable and happy,” Miss Baker said tactfully. “We feel that’s half the reason why you’ve made such a good recovery. But don’t you want to return to your own house and see how your family is?”

  The stony-faced woman showed her first glimmer of feeling. She hesitated, then said, “Oh, they’re all right. I’d just as soon never go back.”

  Never go back! Something clicked in her mind.

  To Cherry’s surprise, her feet carried her forward, without her permission, and her voice was speaking of its own accord. Cherry heard herself saying, “What about that daughter of yours who hasn’t the sense of a chicken? The young one like me, I mean? I’ll bet she’s neglected to oil the furniture and chipped all the dishes and scorched the linens by now.” The woman’s face changed. “She’s probably let your garden run to weed too. Of course I don’t want to worry you, Mrs. Thomp son, but I’d be surprised if that daughter of yours hasn’t forgotten to air the mattresses—and she’s probably opened all your best jams and jellies too!”

  The patient’s face was by now thoroughly alarmed. Cherry had found what was closest to her heart. She threw back the blanket with one sweep of her bony arm and commanded, “Put up a screen around my bed! My best pillow slips ruined, I don’t doubt, and nothing left of the good Damson plum I slaved over last year … I’m getting dressed!” She went on talking excitedly as Cherry brought the white cotton shirred screen and then slipped away.