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I would
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Torie travels to 1891 and inhabits the body of her great-grandaunt Mahala Wyman
Dr. Jacob Krout and family
I became aware of the weight, as a person sat down beside me and I
looked over to see a man dressed in a black suit. He put a stethoscope
in his ears, unbuttoned my gown and placed the disc over my chest,
listening to my heart. He was Dr. Jacob Krout. He had been the doctor in
Fremont for more than forty-three years. He looked young, and was
probably in his early thirties. I had seen several photographs of him
which people had added to his online memorial. He was buried in Cedar
with his family. His wife Mary Alice was a Dinsmore.
He quietly listened to my heart as I studied his kind face.
“Take a deep breath Mahala,” he
requested. “And another. Good.” He smiled kindly at me and buttoned my
gown. “I will be making the rounds to see your sister Ivy when I leave
here. She and Joshua are sure looking forward to that little one. I
don’t think I have ever seen a couple more anxious for a child.”
The doctor looked from me, to some
point at my left and I became aware that someone was holding my hand.
My great-great-grandma Rose was sitting beside me, in a chair.
“We are all looking forward to
that new grand baby,” Rose said, patting my hand. “I think Mahala more
than anyone. How is your family, Dr. Krout? Mary Alice and little Erma,”
“Everyone is just fine. Erma will be going on ten years next month.”
The doctor looked back to me and
smiled. “I will stop again tomorrow,” he assured, rising and taking his
stethoscope from his neck to place it into his medical bag on the floor
beside him.
“I’ll see you out, Doctor,” Rose offered.
“I can see myself out, Rose.” He patted her shoulder and walked to the door. “Until tomorrow,”
Rose turned her attention back to
me as the bedroom door closed softy and I noticed she had a bible open
in her lap. She began reading to me from some chapter. I have no idea
what chapter it was. The good book wasn’t one of those on my book shelf.
I hadn’t cracked a bible since I was confirmed at thirteen years old.
Rose finished the passage and then lifted my hand and kissed the back
gently.
“Mahala, you are the light of my
life, sweetheart. I want you to know that. I love you so much. We will
read and pray every day until you are well. I have faith in God. You
need to have faith and believe.”
“I will, Mother. Mother, what day is it?”
“Friday, April 10.”
“What year?”
She looked at me as though fearing I
was having a fit or something. She touched my forehead gently,
searching for fever. I was almost certain I knew the year because the
doctor mentioned Ivy being anxious to deliver Katie, but I just wanted
it confirmed.
“Eighteen ninety-one, sweet,”
Mahala Wyman died on April 11, 1891.
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