It took me a second to swallow my food. He had never come looking for me before, so I quickly wiped my mouth. The other nurses gave me a quizzical look as I excused myself to see what brought Dr. Philips down to the cafeteria to find me.
“I’m sorry to bother you on your lunch break,” he said, “but I would like to speak to you in private.”
For reasons I couldn’t identify, my heart began to pound a little harder. “Of course.”
He walked out of the cafeteria and stopped in the hallway. Lifting his chin, he said, “I have a patient who is presenting with an unusual set of symptoms, and I’d like a second opinion.”
“From me?” I could hardly believe it.
“Do you not think you’re qualified to give an opinion?”
“No—I mean, yes, I think I could at least examine the patient and see if I’m familiar with his symptoms.”
“Are you able to come now?”
I had lost count of how many meals had been interrupted by my work. One more meal meant nothing. “Yes. Give me a moment, please.”
Anna and the others were still watching for me when I reentered the cafeteria to pick up my lunch tray. “I’ll see you backin the dorm,” I said to my sister. “Dr. Philips would like me to examine one of his patients.”
A series of knowing and teasing grins lifted the red lips of the other ladies, and Anna said with a sly smile, “One of his patients—or himself?”
I would have rolled my eyes at her comment if it hadn’t made me hopeful. She rarely teased me since Richard’s death, though she used to be happy and carefree. “I don’t think Dr. Philips is capable of flirting or romance, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“The famous last words of Maggie Hollingsworth,” Betty said with a chuckle.
I shook my head and brought my tray to the scraping station before rejoining Dr. Philips in the hall.
He was standing where I’d left him, his arms crossed. He wasn’t scowling, per se, but he wasn’t smiling either. I had never seen him smile.
“I’m ready,” I told him.
With a quick nod, he led the way to the elevator.
Neither of us spoke as he pressed the button for the third floor and the doors closed. I noticed his hands were no longer covered in dermatitis, and there was a bit of color in his cheeks today.
I usually didn’t mind silence, but with him, it felt deafening. Besides, there was so much to say. “Has your patient found any relief from the issues we discussed last month? On the evening you were looking at digestive diseases?”
“The night you went to the Army and Navy Club dance?”
I glanced at him and saw that he was staring straight ahead. “Yes. That evening.”
“He actually has found some relief,” Dr. Philips said. “It appears that your suggestion to try an elimination diet has helped. He’s been subsisting on mostly bananas, rice, and water and has been feeling a lot better. He will start adding other foodsback into his diet, one by one, and keep a detailed journal of his symptoms to track his progress.”
It took all my self-control not to smile, forcing me to bite my upper lip for a moment. “I’m happy to hear that.” I wanted to check the internet in 2001 to see if his biography had changed, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to risk changing anything else.
But it puzzled me. If my suggestionhadchanged his prognosis, did that mean he wouldn’t die in 1950? And if he didn’t die in 1950, did that mean I had changed history? Everything Mama had told me suggested that if I knowingly changed history, I would forfeit this path ... yet I was still here.
What did that mean?
I tried to think through the series of events that had occurred. When I suggested to Dr. Philips that he try an elimination diet, I hadn’t known yet about his death in 1950. I had assumed he had celiac disease, but I didn’t know for sure. Was that the difference? I hadn’tknowinglychanged history?
A sense of freedom stole over me. Did that mean I could treat patients in 1861 and 1941 with knowledge I had obtained in 2001 if I didn’tknowinglychange their history? I wasn’t about to challenge the theory, but it gave me a lot to think about.
Dr. Philips looked at me as the elevator moved up to the third floor. “Do you have any other suggestions for my patient?”
Quiet calm settled over me, and I decided I wasn’t going to pretend with Dr. Philips anymore. He was starting to view me as his equal—at least, that was what it felt like. He was turning to me for my knowledge and advice. Perhaps it was time I treated him as my equal, as well.
“When will you admit to me that you’re the patient?”
