His eyes lit up with hope.
“What I mean,” I said quickly, “is that I just don’t have the time to date seriously right now.”
“I know.” He grinned, apparently loving that he made me blush. “Will you come?”
Nibbling my bottom lip, I thought about all the reasons I shouldn’t. Nothing had changed. If anything, I was closer to January and my decision. Seth complicated that decision. But I remembered what my mom had said. If he was on the Committee of Military Construction, might he be able to help my dad with funding? If I went with him to the Ford’s Theatre Gala, could I find an opportunity to put in a plug for Dad’s project?
“I’d be happy to go with you,” I said. “As long as it’snota date.”
He grinned. “It will be whatever you want it to be.”
The way he smiled told me I would have to remind him that it wasn’t a date several times before the evening was done.
A couple of hours later, Delilah and I arrived home, and I went to my room to change into a pair of pajamas and do a little studying. I had an early morning at the hospital the next day, and I needed to get some research done for a paper.
But after thirty minutes, I realized I wasn’t able to focus. It was rare when I couldn’t get lost in my work. I leaned back in my chair as I stared at the computer screen. I should have been reading the online article, but my mind was in a dozen different places—and almost all of them had Seth at the center.
The last thing I wanted was regret—for any reason—but I knew that in January, I would have a lot of things to mourn. I wanted to pursue my feelings for Seth, but I had made a promise to myself. Was it a mistake to go to the Ford’s Theatre Gala?
Perhaps I should throw all caution to the wind and see where my feelings took me. Maybe it would make my decision easier.
Then again, maybe it wouldn’t.
I leaned forward and put my chin into my hands, staring at the screen. It was an article about anaphylactic shock and emergency allergic reaction protocol. It made me think of Dr. Philips and my suspicion of celiac disease. The shift in my thoughts was a welcome reprieve from Seth. Was Dr. Philips suffering from something so easy to treat? It was a shame that I knew a way to help him and couldn’t.
For the first time in my life, I was tempted to look for an answer from the past. I never looked for history. If God revealed something to me through natural means, that was one thing. But to search for an answer seemed dangerous, even reckless.
Either way, there was nothing I could do to help Dr. Philips. My hands were tied. What would it matter if I knew the truth?
I pulled up a web browser and typed inCaptain Dr. Zechariah Philipsand pressed enter.
Several links appeared, some with nothing to do with Dr. Philips, and others just lists of doctors who served during WWII. Finally, I came to a biography from his alma mater, Yale School of Medicine. With a deep breath, I clicked the link. The article had been written in the 1990s and listed several Yale doctors who had served during WWII.
My heart fell at the first line.
Capt. Dr. Zechariah Philips, class of 1930, died on March 13, 1950, of an unknown digestive disease, though modern speculation suggests he suffered from celiac disease.
I immediately closed the browser without reading anything else and stared blankly at the screen.
Dr. Philips would die within nine years from a preventable cause—one that would be linked to gluten just two years later in 1952. It was not only a shame, it was a travesty. He was a brilliant surgeon and could save countless more lives if his own wasn’t cut so short.
Anger started to build within me—not only at Dr. Philips’s fate, but at everything.
I pushed away from my desk and walked over to the window to look outside. I hadn’t spent much time talking to God lately, and I suddenly realized why. I was angry at Him. Angry that He would make me choose between three equally remarkable lives. Angry that He chose for me to be born this way. Frustrated and scared that if I had a child one day, he or she might be forced to make the same choices. What kind of an existence was this? As a healer, it was especially heart-wrenching to know how to heal someone but not be able to give them what they needed. Just like Grandfather Hollingsworth.
I hated this—hated it with a burning anger that had been building for a long time.
“Why?” I asked God, looking up at the ceiling, wanting Him to answer me. “I don’t understand any of this. You have given me a heart to heal, yet You tie my hands. You have given me three amazing lives, yet You tell me I must give up two of them. You bring wonderful men into my life, yet I cannot follow my heart.” I shook my head as tears came to my eyes. “And worse, You remain silent when I need you the most.”
I sat down on my bed and put my face in my hands. Mama told me that God had a plan, but I didn’t see one. All I saw was a lot of confusion and heartache and disappointment. I knew all the reasons I was blessed, but it didn’t ease the pain or anger. It seemed to increase it.
With tears flowing down my cheeks, I climbed under thecovers. I had so much to do, but I couldn’t focus anymore. I was exhausted in body, soul, and spirit, and I just wanted to sleep.
I doubted that God was going to answer me anytime soon. For whatever reason, He was keeping silent, leaving me mired in doubt and confusion.
10
MAY 24, 1861
